Mr. Valentine

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Jack?” Krysta opened the bedroom door. “I’m sorry. I swear that was the slowest waiter in the world, but he’s finally gone. You must have been bored stiff waiting around in there.”

  He pushed himself away from the doorjamb. Little did she know. And that’s probably the way he’d be wise to keep it if he didn’t want to face big-time rejection. “Actually, I’ve been trying on your underwear.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Someday that wise-cracking tongue of yours is going to get you into big trouble, mister. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  So was he, and the seafood pasta tasted far better than he’d expected. Maybe there was more to life than Cheetos and Milk Duds, after all. Even the spinach salad wasn’t half bad.

  He speared a few more leaves onto his fork. “I’m getting into this green Popeye stuff,” he said.

  “It’s the dressing. I take it you don’t cook.”

  “Sure I do.” He stabbed a piece of shrimp from the plate they were sharing. “You should see me nuke a bag of popcorn. Nobody can touch me in that department.”

  “Popcorn’s not as bad as some of the things I’ve seen you eat. It’s a wonder you keep going, a guy as big as you are, with the type of things you put into your body.”

  “I have a highly efficient metabolism.” He poured himself another glass of the Pouilly-Fuissé and gazed at the panorama of lights outside the window. He’d forgotten how stimulating New York could be. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the company that made the difference. He lifted the glass to his lips.

  “You’d better take it easy on the sauce, Killigan. Don’t forget you’re using a water glass, not a wine goblet. The glass holds more.”

  “So do I.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I can see you’re going to be difficult. We’d better go over your new proposal now before your thinking gets too muddled.”

  “Does your thinking ever get muddled, Krysta?”

  She gave him a long look. “In what way?”

  “You always seem so in charge of everything, so sure of your direction.” He swirled the wine in his water glass and took another swig. “I just wondered if you ever get confused.”

  Her gaze became wistful. “I guess I never thought I had that luxury.”

  “Everyone has that luxury. It’s called being human.”

  Her answering sigh revealed more than she might have intended. “Oh, I’m human, all right. Sometimes I just feel like saying to hell with everything and running away to raise flowers or something.”

  He decided to pursue it. Maybe the wine had loosened her up a little bit, too. “And why don’t you?”

  She stared into her wineglass. “Because I’m afraid they’d all fall apart without me,” she said softly.

  “Your brothers?”

  She nodded. “And Dad. He’ll need a full-time nurse in the fall, when Joe goes away to college. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to get this promotion, so there would be enough money to pay for that.”

  “Krysta, your brothers are all good guys. I can’t believe they expect you to take on that burden alone when you can’t really afford it.”

  “You’re right. So I’ve led them to believe I can afford it. That way, they won’t be tempted to drop out of school to help pay.”

  He started to object to such self-sacrifice.

  “Don’t say it. I’ve heard it all from Rosie a dozen times. But you see…” She paused and gazed out the window. “How my mother would have loved this view.”

  “You still miss her.”

  “I think of her almost every day. She had such high hopes for all of us. One night when she was very sick, I got up for a drink of water and I overheard her tell my dad that they should have taken out life insurance on her so there would be money for everyone’s college tuition. That’s when I knew she would die.”

  His throat constricted. He dared not reach out for her and risk breaking the mood. She probably didn’t let many people see this side of her.

  “When I’d cried myself out that night, I made a silent promise to her that I’d see to it, that I’d get the boys educated. I knew with my dad’s problems he wouldn’t have the means.”

  “But you would.”

  She faced him, her gaze calm. “I have, and I will.”

  His inability to help filled him with frustration. It was such a heavy responsibility for one young woman. Not that she couldn’t do it. But the price might be very high. “Hamilton can greatly affect whether you get that promotion, I guess.”

  “You’d better believe it. If I hadn’t agreed to go out with him in the first place, it wouldn’t be so awkward. But we’ve been dating for several months now, and naturally he expects…”

  “You deserve better.” He knew it was the wine talking, but the wine spoke with more truth than he dared.

  “I don’t know how you can say that, Jack. He’s an educated man with a bright future. He’d do anything for me.”

  “As long as you do one little favor for him.”

  “Watch it, Jack. I certainly don’t think in those terms, and I’m quite sure Derek doesn’t, either. But the reality is that I’ve indicated an interest and accepted his invitations, and now the reasonable thing would be—”

  “To pay up?”

  Her green eyes flashed. “That’s enough. I will not have to go to bed with him to pay for the attention he’s given me or to get that promotion.”

  He hated the thought that Hamilton had so much power to grant or crush her dream. “I hope you’re right, but we’re living in an imperfect world, with imperfect people, and you’d be naive not to consider that it might be his price.”

  She glared at him, obviously ticked off. “You are a very maddening person, Jack.”

  He leaned forward, nose-to-nose with her. He longed to take her in his arms and vow to protect her from the world, but he wasn’t sure what that vow would be worth at the moment. “That goes double for you, Krysta.”

  6

  KRYSTA MET JACK’S challenging stare as long as she could. He had a real knack for getting past her defenses, and there was no question that she was becoming attracted to him. Maybe it was because they’d just been discussing her potential sexual relationship with Derek, but she couldn’t help thinking about the love scenes she’d read on the plane and wondering if Jack would be that kind of lover. Probably not. No man could live up to the idealized picture he’d painted. And yet, he’d written it, so he might come very close….

  No. Jack might be attracting her on a physical level, but she had to stay focused on her goals, and his lack of drive would eventually erode any transitory pleasure of two bodies meeting.

  “More wine?” he said.

  “No, thank you.” She forced her gaze away from his. She had a job to do. “Let’s go over our plan for tomorrow and then I’d like to take a look at your new book proposal.”

  “Maybe we should forget about the proposal on this trip. You can say it’s not quite ready, and I can mail it to them later.”

  “But it is ready, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly he looked very vulnerable. “I don’t know.”

  “Let me see it,” she said gently.

  “I think it would be better if I reworked it after we get back. Then I’ll just send it—”

  “Give me your proposal, Jack.” She held out her hand.

  He slipped from his chair, took her hand and dropped to one knee. “Marry me, Krysta. I know I haven’t much to offer except a kiss in the rain, but—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She jerked her hand away before he could tell that it had started trembling. A kiss in the rain. She’d begun to daydream about the magic of such a kiss, about making love to Jack. A marriage proposal, even in jest, set her pulse racing. “You’re impossible,” she said, grabbing the dishes and stacking them on the room service tray. “I want those pages and I want them now.”

  He stood. “If you get the pages, I get the Pouilly-Fuissé.”

  “No, you don’t.”
She picked up the bottle and carried it over to the couch. “After we’ve finished with business, we’ll see about the rest of this wine.”

  He crossed to an end table beside the couch and picked up a stack of papers. “Now I understand why your brothers called you Sarge.”

  She hid her agitation in the only way she knew, by taking on an air of brisk efficiency. “And they quickly learned that discipline was the key to success. I’m sure you know that, Jack. You stayed up all night to write.”

  “You don’t understand.” He held the book outline, reluctant to give it up. “I sacrificed sleep out of love, not discipline. I didn’t force myself to write. It forced me.”

  She was taken aback by the statement. “Is that really true?”

  He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “I’ve never felt like that.” She didn’t minimize the significance of such an admission. He was obviously born to do this. “I envy you.”

  “Nevertheless, what I’ve produced while under that need to create can still be crap, you know.”

  “I seriously doubt it.” She held out her hand again. “Give it here, Jack.”

  “Okay, and while you read, I’ll just step out to the window ledge. If you don’t like it, tap on the window and I’ll jump.”

  “I am sure it’s wonderful.” She practically wrested the papers from his grasp, took them over to the couch and sat down to read.

  Titled Primary Needs, the story was about a woman raised in foster homes and a politician who had much to learn about those less fortunate than he. In the beginning they squared off as enemies, but the groundwork was laid for them to become friends, lovers, and then enemies again when election time came and the issue of social welfare came between them.

  Although she was engrossed in the story, Krysta finally became distracted by the steady rhythm of Jack’s feet as he paced the floor in front of her. She glanced up. “Go do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have a deck of cards?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you can’t watch TV. That would bother me even more.”

  “I could take a walk,” he suggested.

  “That’s silly. I don’t have that much more to read. But you’re driving me crazy pacing like that.”

  “I’ll take a shower,” he muttered, and retreated to the bedroom.

  A moment later the water started, and with a sigh Krysta relaxed against the cushions of the couch and continued her reading. The story was, as she’d imagined it would be, wonderful. Even within this outline he’d captured the characters so well that she could see them in detail and hear the way they moved and talked.

  More than that, she could see how they would come to love each other, both emotionally and physically. It was an explosive combination. Jack deserved even more money for this book, but she decided not to tell him that yet after the way he’d reacted to her last round of negotiating.

  She picked up the outline and tapped it into shape again before heading for the bathroom.

  Jack was just coming out, a towel wrapped around his waist and droplets of water still clinging to his mat of dark chest hair.

  “The proposal’s terrific,” she said, thinking of nothing but the need to reassure him. After living with five men for most of her life, a towel-draped man was nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes. The story has the potential to be even better than your last book, and I already told you how much I liked that one.”

  “God, Krysta, you don’t know what that means to me.” His smile flashed.

  The brilliance of that smile shifted Krysta’s attention dramatically. In the space of a few seconds, she forgot all about Jack’s writing as she finally registered the sight of broad muscled shoulders, a flat stomach and lean hips that barely held up the towel Jack had knotted around his waist. He’d laid aside his glasses, and his long hair looked quite appropriate on a man dressed in something resembling a loincloth.

  At the beginning of this escapade, she’d kidded herself that she’d be sharing a hotel room with good old Jack, a guy she knew so well he’d become nearly invisible. Well, he was invisible no longer. Not only was her roommate the most intelligent, gifted man she’d ever known, he was also a hunk.

  Glancing away from the Adonis standing before her, she focused on the proposal in her hand. “I f-found a typo on page two.” She fumbled with the paper and pulled out the offending page.

  “You did? I went over it several times.”

  She realized her tactical error when he walked around to peer over her shoulder at the manuscript.

  The fragrance of clean male filled her senses as he leaned closer. “Where?”

  “You’ve spelled the word passion with only one s.” Out of all the words he could have mistyped, it had to be that one.

  “Guess I’ll have to correct it in pen.” His breath caressed her cheek.

  She swallowed. This was ridiculous. Her heart was beating frantically, yet it was only Jack standing close to her. “Or I could find out if the hotel has a computer we can borrow.” Doggone it, there was a definite quiver in her voice.

  “Too much trouble. You’d better fix it, so it’ll be consistent in case you end up having to write out anything else while we’re here.”

  “I’ll take care of it right now.” She moved away from him and headed into the living room.

  He followed her. “Use a black pen. I don’t like the look of blue on a manuscript.”

  She glanced back at him. She had to get him to put some clothes on, and fast. “The curtains are open, Jack.”

  “So what? We’re forty-five floors up.”

  She gazed at him, unable to come up with another excuse, yet unwilling to confess the truth—that his towel-clad body was giving her ideas she had no business having. Didn’t want to have, under the circumstances.

  Apparently she didn’t have to say anything. Gradually, awareness dawned in his expression, along with a slow smile of male satisfaction. “I’ll get dressed,” he said, walking over to the closet and taking his duffel bag out. “And thanks, Krysta.”

  “For what?”

  “For noticing me.”

  “Jack, I’ve always—”

  “Not like that,” he said quietly. Then he walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

  JACK DECIDED NOT TO PUSH his luck. And luck seemed to be what he was having. He’d decided on a shower as a last-ditch distraction while Krysta finished reading his proposal. He’d thought about taking one earlier because he’d felt grubby after the bus ride to the hotel, so it seemed like killing two birds with one stone to take one while Krysta was reading his proposal. She had surprised the heck out of him by walking right into the bathroom, but he’d figured that was even more evidence that she didn’t think of him in sexual terms.

  And she probably hadn’t before that moment. But one thing was sure. She did now. She probably wasn’t too thrilled to realize she was physically attracted to him instead of to the guy she wanted to lust after, middle-management king Derek Hamilton. So Jack decided not to act on his newfound knowledge yet and see how Krysta would handle living with him for the next few days.

  Consequently he was the perfect gentleman he’d promised to be while they had another glass of wine and talked about Candy Valentine’s schedule for the next day.

  “I’ll give the proposal to Stephanie when I get to Manchester for the tour of the offices,” Krysta said. Her bare feet were propped on the coffee table as she sat on the couch and sipped from her wine goblet. “That will give her maximum time to read it before Sunday morning, when we leave.”

  “I doubt if she will read it before we leave.” Jack had chosen to sit in a club chair across from the couch. That didn’t put him as close to Krysta as he would have liked, but he had the advantage of being able to study her when she wasn’t looking. It was a luxury to record little details like the shade of pink she used on her toen
ails and the pattern of freckles across her nose, freckles that were usually covered by makeup and powder.

  She crossed her ankles and scooted down lower on the couch. “I think she’ll read it, and I think she’ll make Candy an offer before we leave.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” Jack decided he liked her eyelashes better without mascara. There was a sweetness and vulnerability in her green eyes tonight. Then again, maybe that had nothing to do with the lack of makeup. He considered moving over to sit next to her on the couch but soon rejected the idea. No point in scaring her away just when she might be starting in his direction.

  He picked up the typed schedule Stephanie had sent along with the airline tickets. “After the tour you’re supposed to have a makeover. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  She laughed. “It’s a girl thing. We love makeovers.”

  “You wouldn’t let them dye your hair or anything, would you?”

  “I don’t know. Would that be so terrible? Maybe I’d look great with ash-blond hair.”

  “What color is that?”

  “Almost white, instead of this goldish brown I have.”

  He winced as he pictured her like that. The polished bronze of her hair was one of the things he treasured about her. “Don’t let them change your hair color, okay?” He knew as soon as the words were out that they were far too revealing. “I mean, how would you explain that when we get back?”

  “Everyone already thinks I’m at a health spa. They’ll just consider the makeover as a part of it. Don’t worry, I can cover my tracks.”

  Dammit, he liked her just the way she was. No telling what some New York salon would do to her. “But they were all crazy about that picture of you, so why would they want to change anything?”

  “They probably liked the potential they saw in that picture, but I’ll bet they want a more sophisticated look.”