Mr. Valentine

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “I think you’re sophisticated enough.” To hell with it. He’d beg, even if it did tell her too much. “Please don’t let them bleach your hair lighter.”

  Her gaze was assessing. “Okay, I won’t.”

  With a sigh of relief he went back to the typed schedule. “Good. So then you have a photo session, then a Broadway show, the exact one to be announced.”

  “Whatever they can wrangle tickets to, I guess. I’ll be excited to go to anything on Broadway.”

  “It should be great,” he agreed. “Then you have dinner at Sardi’s.” He glanced up. “Doesn’t sound like I’ll see much of you.”

  “Which is precisely why I’m taking the tote with the tape recorder in it, so I can replay all the comments for you when I get home.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider that. If somebody at Manchester discovers you’re taping the conversations, it could blow the whole deal.”

  “Come on, Jack.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “I can manage it. You agreed to it originally. You have to know the gist of the conversations to properly coach me on what else to say. I don’t trust my memory to keep it all straight.”

  He knew she was right. “Okay, keep the tape recorder, but forget about smuggling food back to the room in that tote of yours. That’s out.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve heard about these five-course dinners at New York restaurants. I couldn’t possibly eat it all. Don’t you dare buy dinner. I’ll bring you plenty, believe me.”

  “Don’t do it, Krysta.”

  She got that smug little look on her face and he knew she had no intention of doing what he asked.

  He resisted the urge to go over and kiss that smugness right away. “I can just imagine you coming back tomorrow night with pâté oozing out of the bottom of your tote bag.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You know what pâté is? I’m impressed.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. “You seem to be under the impression that just because I don’t eat exotic and health-filled items that I don’t know what they are. I know all about them. I’d just rather have a hamburger and fries.”

  “You liked what we had tonight.”

  “Probably because I was starving to death.” Probably because you were there to share it with me.

  “Junk food is just a bad habit, Jack. If I were in charge of your diet for two weeks I’ll bet you’d lose your taste for those things that are so harmful to your body.”

  He’d be willing to put her in charge of his diet for a lot longer than two weeks, but a few other stipulations would be included. He didn’t think she was ready to hear about that. He reached for the nearly empty wine bottle. “Want to finish this off?”

  “Actually, no. Considering the day I have ahead of me, I think I’d better get some sleep.”

  He pictured her going into the bedroom, taking off her sweat suit and slipping into the daisy-print nightie before climbing into the big bed and nestling under the covers. He could already tell it would be a very long night.

  She stood and stretched. “Good night, Jack.”

  “Good night, Krysta.”

  She stopped in midstretch. “Oh! I need to loan you a pillow and blanket from the bed. I’ll be right back.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her it was wasted effort. He’d conditioned himself to function on very little sleep. Between his usual night-owl behavior and the stimulation of knowing Krysta would be in the next room, he’d be awake for hours.

  “Here you go.” She positioned the pillow at the end of the couch and arranged the bedspread over the cushions, tucking it in at the end with a practiced hand. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Or would you rather I left this loose? Do you like to stick your feet out of the covers?”

  Her endearing habit of caretaking really got to him. How he yearned to go over there, pull her down to the couch and show her how he’d really like to spend the night. “The way you have it is fine.”

  “I don’t know.” She stepped back, hands on her hips, to survey her handiwork. “This doesn’t look very comfortable for a man your size. I think you should take the bed and let me sleep out here.”

  “It’ll be fine. Besides, you’re the one who has to represent me tomorrow. If anybody should get a good night’s sleep, it’s you. Can’t have bags under Candy Valentine’s eyes.”

  “I guess you have a point.” She turned to him. “I brought some melatonin capsules for jet lag, if you want some to help you sleep.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll go get the bottle, in case you change your mind.” She went into the bathroom and returned with a small plastic bottle. After shaking out a couple of tablets, she recapped the bottle and set it on the wet bar. “They’re right here if you need them.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t.”

  She sighed. “Sometimes it’s so hard to help you out, Jack. By the way, what do you have planned for tomorrow? Obviously you can’t stay in the room and let the maids see that you’re staying here.”

  He laughed. It was so typical of her to worry about his day as well as her own. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t consider staying in a hotel room when I’m in the middle of one of the most exciting cities in the world. I’ll be on the move all day, drinking it in.”

  “Gathering material for your work.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  A wistful look came into her eyes. “I wish I could go with you.”

  He met her gaze and allowed her to see a little of what he was feeling. Just a little. He’d hold off on the heavy-duty stuff for now. “I wish you could, too.”

  She didn’t speak for several seconds. He could almost see the debate going on behind those green eyes. He was pretty sure she didn’t want to walk into that bedroom alone any more than he wanted her to, but it would be a big leap for her to invite him to go with her. He didn’t think she’d make that leap tonight.

  She took a deep breath. “Good night, Jack.”

  “Good night, Krysta.”

  7

  THANK GOODNESS she’d packed her melatonin to help her get a good night’s rest, Krysta thought as her travel alarm beeped her awake. Jet lag might have messed up her sleep schedule, but not nearly as much as thinking about Jack would have. She’d never imagined that he could create such a hunger in her. Wanting to make love to Jack was definitely not part of the plan.

  Fortunately such uncharacteristic behavior on her part could easily be explained by the unusual circumstances. First she’d read Jack’s sensual manuscript on the way to New York. That had started her mind working in the wrong direction, and then she’d been stupid enough to walk in on him as he was coming out of the shower.

  Probably most women would react the way she had, given that particular scenario. As long as she didn’t read any more of Jack’s work and gave him a wide berth when he was dressing or undressing, she’d be fine. She could go home to Derek with a clear conscience.

  Well, almost clear. She’d had to tell him the same white lie she’d told everyone, about winning the health spa getaway contest. She and Jack had worked out every detail they could think of to protect the identity of Candy Valentine.

  The only snag had been when they’d realized Manchester planned a photo shoot for a dust jacket picture. They both knew there was a chance someone might recognize Krysta when the book hit the stands. But after some thought they’d decided she could just laugh off any comments and put it down to a strange coincidence. The makeover would probably help, too. In Krysta’s opinion, professional photographs seldom looked like the subject, anyway.

  And that make-over and photograph session was today, Krysta reminded herself. She got out of bed and went over to the bedroom door to listen for some indication that Jack was awake. The total silence encouraged her to ease the door open and peek out.

  Jack lay sprawled on his back on top of the bedspread, not underneath it as she’d anticipated. He still wore his jeans, but his flannel shirt was u
nbuttoned and askew, revealing the powerful chest that had unsettled her the night before. The steady rise and fall of that chest told her that he was still sound asleep.

  His right arm trailed to the floor, where she could see one corner of a yellow legal tablet just beyond his outstretched fingers. So he’d found a way to write the night away, after all. A wave of tenderness engulfed her as she pictured him bent over his legal pad, totally engrossed in that magical world of creativity that inspired such wonder in her. She was so glad to have agreed to help him launch his career.

  The legal tablet tantalized her with what it might contain, and despite her promise to herself, she was dying to find out what he’d composed while she slept. Perhaps he’d been working on Primary Needs. The story had captured her imagination, and it would be a thrilling treat to read the work as it came straight from Jack’s mind.

  He looked dead to the world. No doubt he’d kept his same schedule and had stayed up until early morning writing. She didn’t want to disturb his much-needed rest, but a bomb would hardly wake him, from the looks of him.

  Moving with great stealth, she crept out of the bedroom and around the coffee table to where the legal tablet lay. Sure enough, the top sheet was covered with Jack’s bold script. He’d tossed his pen onto the carpet next to the tablet.

  Sinking quietly to a cross-legged position, Krysta picked up the tablet and began to read. It quickly became obvious to her that Jack had been writing a love scene between the hero and heroine of Primary Needs. Krysta knew if she had any sense at all she’d replace the tablet and go take a shower—a very cold shower. She kept reading.

  The politician had arrived unexpectedly at the home of the heroine, who was already dressed for bed and had pulled on a robe over her nightgown to answer the door. Inevitably, the politician took off the robe, and Krysta gasped. The heroine was wearing a soft nightie covered in daisies.

  Just then a viselike grip surrounded her wrist, and her gaze lifted to meet Jack’s.

  His eyes were the color of a mountain lake, and just as cold-looking. “What are you doing?” His question rasped harshly in the stillness of the hotel room.

  “I—I woke up, and looked out here, and—”

  “That’s mine.” He took the tablet from her grasp and tossed it on the coffee table. “No one sees it until I say so.”

  At first his tone chastened her, but she quickly recovered with a complaint of her own. “But I’m in there! Or at least, my nightgown is!”

  He continued to hold her wrist in a manaclelike grip as he skewered her with his gaze. “Of course that seductive little nightgown is in there. People are always asking writers where they get their ideas. Well, now you know! Did you think I’d see it lying on your pillow and not use my imagination? Imagination is my stock in trade, Krysta.”

  “I just never thought—”

  “Well, think.” His grip tightened. “I never intended to spend the night counting sheep. After seeing that nightie I lay here in the wee small hours fantasizing about it, and you in it. And out of it. But what I wrote still belongs to me until I say different.”

  Her heart thundered and her vocal cords constricted, but she was determined to stand up for her rights. “You invaded my privacy with your words, but I’m not allowed to read what you’ve written until you say so? That’s not fair, Jack.”

  “Maybe not.” The night’s growth of beard made him look dark and dangerous. “But writers have been revealing people ’s secrets for centuries and insisting on the autonomy to do it without censorship. It comes with the territory.”

  His unexpected aggressive behavior intimidated her, but it stirred something passionate in her, as well. She’d never considered that Jack possessed the dark and compelling sexuality he was displaying now.

  She fought to keep her breathing steady. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve never known a writer before.” She glanced at his fingers still firmly clasping her wrist. “You’d better let me go if you want me to be on time for the limo.”

  Instantly he released her and lay back on the couch. As she got to her feet and started to leave, he closed his eyes and muttered a soft oath. “Krysta, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not used to—”

  “I have to go.” In her present state she was far better off with his anger than his kindness. If he started being sweet, no telling what sort of foolish behavior she’d indulge in. She practically ran toward the safety of the bedroom.

  JACK TRIED TO APOLOGISE several times during the next hour before Krysta left the suite, but he’d spooked her and she wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to make amends. Finally, she whisked out the door, telling him she’d see him that night.

  Once she was gone, he picked up the legal tablet and threw it against the window. He’d definitely overreacted when he’d opened his eyes to see her reading his rough—very rough, draft. Now that he’d adapted to a computer, he was even more critical of anything he composed on paper because a legal pad had no delete key. Compared with his polished work, the scribblings on the tablet seemed crude and embarrassing. Besides, he wasn’t used to having anyone around who might chance upon his work before he was ready to have it read.

  But that didn’t excuse his barking at her. Part of his reaction had stemmed from his own guilt. He had invaded her privacy, and despite his defense of the practice, he was uneasy about it. The more he got to know Krysta, the less he wanted to reveal of her to the world. His nighttime writing effort had been more to relieve his frustration than to advance the action of his story. Yet he couldn’t tell her that.

  It was water under the bridge at this point, though. He couldn’t stand there stewing about it forever when he needed to shave and vacate the room soon or risk having some maid discover him. While he was roaming the city today he might come up with a way to apologize that Krysta would be able to accept. He’d bragged about his tremendous imagination. Time to prove how good it was.

  CARRYING HER TOTE BAG containing the tape recorder and Jack’s proposal over one arm, Krysta entered the reception area of Manchester Publishing. It was smaller than she’d imagined, although a large brass version of the Manchester logo on one wall and numerous framed book covers left no doubt she was in the right place.

  A young brunette with long permed hair and wire-rimmed glasses sat at the receptionist’s desk. She smiled at Krysta. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m…Candy Valentine.” Krysta had been practicing under her breath all the way over in the limo, but she still wasn’t satisfied with her delivery.

  The receptionist didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. “Oh, Ms. Valentine! We’ve been expecting you. Have a seat and I’ll tell Ms. Briggs that you’re here.” She picked up the telephone on her desk and punched a button.

  Krysta sat in a sleek leather chair, reached into her tote bag and turned on the tape recorder.

  The receptionist replaced the receiver. “She’ll be right out. You know, you look exactly the way I pictured you would when I read your manuscript.”

  “You read Ja—my manuscript?” God, she’d have to be more careful. She was the writer now. It was her work, not Jack’s, that she carried in the tote bag.

  “My goal is to be promoted to editorial, so I offered to help read the Valentine’s Day contest entries. I loved your story and sent it right to Ms. Briggs, along with a recommendation to publish.” She looked very proud of herself. “My judgment was on the money, too.”

  “Then I have a lot to thank you for,” Krysta said. She really didn’t know much about this business, she thought. She’d imagined all manuscripts were read by editors, yet here was evidence that the first reader might just as easily be the receptionist in the outer office.

  “Oh, no, I’m the grateful one. You should see some of the junk I’ve had to wade through. Your manuscript was a breath of fresh air. And hot, too.” She winked at Krysta. “Just what I like.”

  Krysta managed a weak smile. She hadn’t been allowed to finish the scene Jack had written
the night before, but she had no doubt it had been steamy. And now she knew where he got his ideas.

  “Besides that, my discovering you in the contest entries should be very good for my career.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “In fact, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that—” She stopped speaking as a tall woman in a gray wool suit walked into the reception area.

  Krysta stood and was glad she’d worn three-inch heels. Otherwise Stephanie Briggs would have towered over her. From the cut of her slim suit to the casual perfection of her short brown hair and understated makeup, Stephanie was every inch the urban sophisticate. Krysta recognized a kindred spirit immediately.

  “So you’re Candy.” Stephanie extended her hand. “I’m Stephanie.”

  “It’s good to meet you at last.” Krysta returned the firm handshake.

  Stephanie’s glance swept over Krysta and she smiled her approval. “It’s even better to meet you and discover you didn’t send us a twenty-year-old photograph. The marketing department will be very glad that you’re as attractive as your picture.”

  Krysta thought about the inevitable day when the marketing department would learn that Candy Valentine was a man named Jack. “Are my looks really so important?”

  “Ordinarily they’re not. Most of our authors wouldn’t make People magazine’s list of the fifty most beautiful people in the world, and we really don’t care. If you’d been homely, we still would have bought your manuscript.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “But we wouldn’t have marketed the book, and you, the way we plan to under the circumstances. The fact that you’re young and pretty is a publicity bonus, and we’re going to make use of it. Now, come along, and I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour of the place. The staff is dying to get a look at our next bestselling author.”

  As Krysta walked with Stephanie down the carpeted hallway she wondered how Jack would react to Stephanie’s comments when he heard the tape. Viewing it from his perspective, he couldn’t be very happy to learn that without Krysta, he might have been just another title on the rack instead of a highly promoted lead book. But she’d put the recorder in so that he’d know as much as possible about the plans for Uptown Girl, and he still needed that information even if some of it proved to be painful.