by JoAnn Durgin
“Hi Amy. Landon Warnick. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
Amy straightened in the chair. Placing one hand over the receiver, she grunted a few quick times to clear her throat. To her extreme annoyance, her heart palpitated. What am I, fourteen? She moved her hand over her heart, as if that would slow it down. Project warmth without too much enthusiasm. “Hi there. Your timing is actually very good.” Normally a man waited a minimum of three days after meeting her—if not a week—before calling. Not that it mattered since she turned down most of them, anyway. Why waste their time if she wasn’t interested? But Landon Warnick struck her as an unconventional man who made up his own rules. In part, that’s how he’d forged a name for himself in New York publishing circles in barely more than a decade. Impressive, and another reason to like him.
“After meeting you last night, I started thinking about something when I got home.”
“Always a good thing.” She put a hand on her knee to stop it from pumping up and down. Closing her eyes, she waited. If he used the word connection or—heaven forbid—vibe, all bets were off.
“I was remiss in not asking you to dinner when I had the opportunity.” Oh, he’s good. “I knew I’d regret it—”
“Oh, I’m sure you—” Be quiet and let the man talk.
“For at least the next fifty years.” When she didn’t answer—too stunned to speak—he chuckled. “Amy? You still there?”
“Um, yes. I’m checking my schedule for the next fifty years.” Is this guy for real?
He laughed. “Good. I was afraid I’d already lost you. Listen, I know it’s late notice, but I was hoping you could meet me for dinner tonight?”
She shoved aside the nagging part of her brain urging her to play it cool and tell him she had other plans. Playing by the rules was never her preferred way of doing things either. “I have another commitment, but it’s not until seven-thirty.” If she timed it right, she could manage both.
“Then how about we meet for an early dinner? Would that work with your schedule?”
“Yes. I’d like that.” That’s the best you can come up with?
“Great. Let’s say Kyle’s on Madison at five-thirty?”
“Lovely. I’ll see you then.” What woman your age talks like this? Maybe an aging, snooty debutante. Her brain must be stuck in neutral. If asked, would she remember her own name? Good thing Landon was decisive instead of playing the annoying “where do you want to go?” game. Still, she hadn’t acted like such a girl in a long time. Disconnecting the call, she stared at the cradled receiver. The upcoming wedding in Louisiana with some of her dearest friends, the opportunity to interview Sam and now a spontaneous dinner date with a fascinating man? Life couldn’t get much better.
Turning back to her work, she hoped she’d be able to concentrate instead of watching the minutes tick by on the clock. Up until now, her life had been relatively uncomplicated. Dull, that’s what it was. Now, it was full of anticipation, ripe with possibility. Ripe? Girl, you do need a date. Although Amy generally preferred quiet, she had to admit a little excitement never hurt. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her heart from picking up speed. Again.
~~**~~
The driver grunted when Amy climbed in the back of the taxi. “Where to, lady?” He was hunched over, his balding head down. From the way the man’s right shoulder moved in a rhythmic manner, she assumed he was updating his mileage log. She gave him the address for Kyle’s and settled on the ugly, cracked leather seat, trying not to inhale the stale smells of smoke, perfume, alcohol and other things about which she’d best not speculate. As he pulled into the line of traffic, the driver gestured to the row of office buildings to their right. “You work for one of them big publishing companies?”
She’d been in hundreds of New York cabs but this was a first—a talkative driver who asked a question. His dark eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Yes. I work for Habits magazine.”
He whistled under his breath as he switched lanes. “My daughter reads that one. She’s seventeen, a high school senior and says she wants to be a writer.” He laughed. “Or a model. Or a Broadway star. Hazard of living in New York. Next week it might be something else, but she seems to like writing more than anything else. Gets the highest grades in her English class.”
“What does she write?” Interesting a girl that age would be interested in Habits considering its median target market was twenty-six-to-forty, single or married urban career professionals with an average of one child. He could be mistaken or trying to ingratiate himself, but—no matter the man’s motives—she preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Stories. Real good ones, too. None of that dark, death and dying stuff a lot of kids write these days.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Angelina. Angelina Delgado.”
Amy smiled, reminded of the shy little girl with the same first name Lexa befriended in the San Antonio TeamWork camp.
“Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you—”
She could see where this was headed. “Sure. I’ll give you my card. Tell Angelina to e-mail a couple of her stories to me or whatever she wants. If I see potential, I’ll make a call or two.” Best not to promise much without seeing Angelina’s work first. “There’s a number of small and mainstream teen magazines, and they’re always looking for new, fresh young voices. It’d be a great place for her to break into the market and see if she’d like to pursue it as a full-time career.”
The driver stole a quick glance, looking at her over his shoulder with a proud papa grin as he stopped for a light. “You’d really do that?”
“Sure. I’ll be happy to do what I can if her work shows promise.” She pulled one of her business cards from her wallet and handed it across the seat when he stopped at the next light.
Taking the card, the driver glanced at it then tucked it in his top pocket. “Thanks. You’re a real nice lady, Ms. Jacobsen.” A few blocks later, he stopped at the curb in front of Kyle’s. Scurrying around the front of the car, he moved quickly for his rotund frame. With a tip of his cap, he opened the back door and took her hand to help her onto the sidewalk. When she paid the fare and told him to keep the change, a generous smile slid across his broad face and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’ll tell her to send you something. Angelina Delgado. Remember that name.”
“I’ll watch for her e-mail.” Giving him a parting smile, Amy pulled her wool collar closer as a bitter blast of wind hit her full force. Shivering, she burrowed her chin and mouth into the warm scarf wound around her neck. Hurrying toward the entrance of Kyle’s, she wondered what awaited her behind the restaurant door.
Chapter 7
Although it was dark outside, the streetlights illuminated the sidewalk enough for Landon to witness Amy manage the impossible: completely charm a Manhattan taxi driver. He chuckled as the burly man opened the door and assisted her from the cab. From his brief conversation with her at Café Eduardo, he was more than intrigued. Surprised but pleased she’d accepted his last-minute dinner invitation, he’d been inordinately distracted most of the afternoon by the prospect of getting to know her.
This was a woman who carried herself with confidence, her shoulders squared with a slight lift of the chin. Amy possessed an inherent grace. Not quite tall enough to be a model—about five-foot-eight by his best estimate—she was lovely in a girl-next-door way that radiated a natural sensuality. He doubted she was aware of the power she must hold over men. She’d transfixed him by the simple act of stepping out of a taxi and walking toward the entrance. Women this gorgeous were usually preoccupied with their looks and dressed to please a man with high heels that couldn’t be comfortable and body-hugging clothing. While he appreciated those things from an aesthetic standpoint, he’d learned a long time ago it was little more than window dressing. He needed more. The woman walking into Kyle’s now might be the perfect woman to challenge him.
Opening the front door, Landon smile
d as Amy came inside. The bells decorating the holiday wreath on the front door jingled as she swept past him, bringing with her a rush of cold air. When she turned to him, her warm, generous smile was capable of thawing the deepest freeze. “Thanks.” Shivering, she started to remove her gloves. “I think they’re frozen to my fingers and I was only outside for a minute or two.”
“Here. Let me help you.”
She raised both hands. “I don’t think I’ve needed anyone to do this for me since I was five.” With her bright eyes and pink-tipped nose and cheeks, she gave him a smile reminiscent of a wide-eyed child, full of the wonder of the Christmas season.
“Glad I could help. I think it’s a first for me.” He smiled and resisted leaning closer to get a better look at her eyes, an arresting mix of gray and green.
“They’re both.”
“Excuse me?” She’d picked up on his fascination. Smooth.
“Most people have the same reaction. I’m used to it. Mitch’s eyes are identical. We got them from our grandfather on Mom’s side.”
Ah, yes. Eric Carlisle. “I can’t comment on Mitch’s eyes, but on you, I definitely like it.” When Amy lowered her gaze, denying him the pleasure, he hastened to reassure her. “Sorry if that comment made you uncomfortable.”
“No worries. It didn’t.”
He offered his assistance as she shrugged out of her coat. In her heels, she reached the top of his shoulder. His eyes skimmed over her professional navy business suit and crisp white blouse. The pencil skirt and jacket couldn’t disguise her curves, but he’d much rather see a woman more relaxed and comfortable in jeans and a sweater. Save for one small button at the top, her blouse was buttoned all the way to her neck. While he appreciated modesty, he had to wonder if Amy was afraid to reveal her femininity. Something about her stirred him in a way he’d be hard-pressed to define. She was beautiful, yes, but perhaps it was a glimpse of a sweet innocence beneath the confident exterior. Unless he was way off the mark, the junior editor was unassuming and guileless. He prayed she had the solid backbone to withstand the demands and pitfalls of their chosen profession.
Change the subject so she doesn’t catch you gawking. “You managed something not many women can do. I’m impressed.”
The glance she slanted his way was curious. “Thanks, I think, but what would that be?”
“You prompted uncommon chivalry from a Manhattan cabbie. That’s an amazing feat.”
She unwound the long scarf circling her neck. “Only because he had an ulterior motive. He has a daughter in high school who wants to be a writer.”
“Did you tell him she should walk in the opposite direction as fast as she could?”
“No,” she said, the corners of her mouth curving. “I told him she should run.”
They shared a smile. “How’d he know you’re a writer?” The hostess appeared and took Amy’s coat and scarf, telling them she’d return shortly with the claim ticket.
“You must have missed it.” With one finger, Amy drew an imaginary line across her forehead. “It’s usually written up here.” She shrugged. “He probably runs that route a lot and knows the building is full of publishing houses. For all I know, he’s been asking all his fares the same question and I’m the only one who took the bait. I gave him my business card and told him to have her send me something. I like to help if the opportunity presents itself and I see potential.”
“That’s very generous of you. You never know when you might stumble on the next writing phenom.” He remembered those days—helping young writers achieve their goals, fostering the dream. The luster had tarnished a bit, but he still loved mentoring when he could. Don’t give too much of yourself, Amy. He’d hate to see this lovely woman burned by the ruthlessness of those fueled by selfish ambition. New York, and the publishing world in particular, overflowed with blood-thirsty sharks who’d devour and then regurgitate writers without a second thought.
The hostess handed him the claim ticket. “Would you like your regular table, Mr. Warnick?”
“Sounds good, if it’s available. Thanks, Gretchen.” He gestured for Amy to go first, but not before catching her raised brows. As they threaded their way through tables, he nodded at a few acquaintances. It was a decent crowd for a cold weeknight. Piped-in holiday tunes and bright, twinkling lights strung around the perimeter of the restaurant added to the festive atmosphere.
“I imagine you know the staff at most of the popular Manhattan eateries.”
He helped her into a chair at the small, out-of-the-way table before taking the one beside her. “It can get noisy and this way we can hear each other without shouting across the table.”
She surveyed the restaurant. “Makes sense. This is my first time here, but some of our staff come here after work sometimes.”
“The answer is no,” he said.
“No?” She shook her head. “Did I ask a question?”
“I only frequent a few restaurants and you’ve happened to be in two of them in as many days. One by chance—if you want to call it that—and one by choice.”
Her smile reappeared. It was quite infectious with a hint of mischief. Best of all, it reached her eyes. “I don’t believe in chance or luck as a matter of principle.”
He nodded. Good answer, not that it was a test.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” she said. “A busy man like you, I realize you probably don’t leave your office so early most evenings. All things considered, you look remarkably well-rested.”
Amy grew more intriguing by the moment, drawing him in with her sense of humor. “A large part of making a success out of the magazine is surrounding myself with the right people and a not-so-little thing called delegation. I highly recommend it.” His eyes met hers. “As a matter of principle.”
They shared another smile, and it felt good. “Intelligence and common sense will take you far in life,” she said. “Speaking as a junior flunkie, I can understand the wisdom of delegation.”
He waited as she ordered a half-Coke, half-Diet Coke before ordering an iced tea, but his smile disappeared. She’d called herself a flunkie last night, too. Self-deprecation was one thing, but not understanding her worth was another. Was she being incredibly humble or did it go deeper? “If you don’t recognize your value, then Juliet’s not doing her job.”
“Fine then. I’m brilliant.” She held out her hand. “Feel free to slap my wrist for trying to be semi-humble.”
Taking the menus from the waiter and handing one across the table to her, he figured he needed to soften that last comment in case she’d taken offense. “I’ve read a few of your pieces in Habits. You’re an exceptional writer.”
The corner of her right lip quirked slightly higher than the left. “Thank you, but I have to ask if you read them before or after we met last night?”
Implicating Mitch wasn’t in his best interest. “If it appeases you, I started out as a”—he cleared his throat—“junior flunkie. You don’t know how it pains me to use that terminology, and not because it’s a lowly position.”
“Of course not, but it sounds like you know my illustrious boss pretty well.”
“Juliet and I went to Columbia grad school together; my point being that part of the job is knowing your competition.”
“Oh?” she said, raising a brow again. He figured she’d probably give him a skeptical glance quite often. “Part of the whole keeping your friends close and enemies closer theory?” She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Warnick, if you invited me to dinner to coerce me to divulge hidden secrets, you’re sorely misguided.” Her tone implied she was teasing. “You’ll find I’m loyal to the end.”
Landon chuckled. “You have an active imagination. Okay, I’ll call off the water torture. Sure, we’re competitors, but we can keep each other sharp. We both want to produce the best possible magazine for our readers, and Habits and New York Scene share a lot of subscribers. Think of it like your church softball team. The players all have varying temperaments, professions,
levels of economic status and interests.”
Thanking the waiter for the half-and-half, Amy took a sip, appearing to mull over her response. “True enough, but why did you say your church softball team?”
“Semantics. Do you play?” Mitch mentioned it when he told you about Amy. Play it cool.
“Yes, but how could you know that?”
“It’s a hypothetical example to illustrate the whole teamwork aspect.”
Her eyes widened at that one. “You’re familiar with TeamWork?”
Digging the hole deeper. “Only that it’s a great concept, even better when carried out.” For now, he needed to keep the conversation moving forward to the next topic.
She stared at him for a long moment. “I may regret asking this, but what else do you know about me?”
If she knew all he did know about her, she’d no doubt slap his face, stomp out of the restaurant and out of his life. No way that was going to happen. “For one thing, I suspect your eyes change color, reflecting what you wear.” That’s one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said.
Looking away, a slight smile creased her lips. “Well, now, that’s hardly impressive since you already mentioned it. Besides, I think that statement could apply to most people. And their eyes.” A self-conscious awareness passed over her features. While Amy was intelligent and sophisticated, she wasn’t worldly—a significant difference and a refreshing change from what he glimpsed in many women who wore jadedness like she must wear a favorite pair of well-worn jeans.
“Then again, you’re hardly ‘most people,’ Amy. Right now your eyes are the color of pale emeralds. Exquisite.” He busied himself with his menu again, chastising himself for that perhaps ill-advised observation. It was too much, too soon. She didn’t seem the type to bow to intimidation or scare away, but his bluntness had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count. With Amy, he didn’t want to push her away. With this woman, he had the feeling nothing came easily, but he thrived on the challenge.
