“Oh, honestly!”
“I am being honest,” he answered. “You know, you intrigue me, Simpson. Have you eaten?”
Maryanne’s heart raced with excitement at the offhand question. He seemed to be leading up to suggesting they dine together. Unfortunately she’d been around Nolan long enough to realize she couldn’t trust the man. Anything she said or did would more than likely show up in that column of his.
“I’ve got an Irish stew simmering in a pot at home,” she murmured, dismissing the invitation before he could offer it.
“Great! I love stew.”
Maryanne opened her mouth to tell him she had no intention of asking him into her home. Not after the things he’d said about her in his column. But when she turned to tell him so, their eyes met. His were a deep, dark brown and almost...she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a faint glimmer of admiration. The edge of his mouth quirked upward with an unmistakable hint of challenge. He looked as if he expected her to reject him.
Against her better judgment, and knowing she’d live to regret this, Maryanne found herself smiling.
“My apartment’s on Spring Street,” she murmured.
“Good. I’ll follow you.”
She lowered her gaze, feeling chagrined and already regretful about the whole thing. “I didn’t drive.”
“Is your chauffeur waiting?” he asked, his voice and eyes mocking her in a manner that was practically friendly.
“I took a cab,” she said, glancing away from him. “It’s a way of life in Manhattan and I’m not accustomed to dealing with a car. So I don’t have one.” She half expected him to make some derogatory comment and was thankful when he didn’t.
“I’ll give you a lift, then.”
He’d parked his car, a surprisingly stylish sedan, in a lot close to the waterfront. The late-September air was brisk, and Maryanne braced herself against it as Nolan cleared the litter off the passenger seat.
She slipped inside, grateful to be out of the chill. It didn’t take her more than a couple of seconds to realize that Nolan treated his car the same way he treated his raincoat. The front and back seat were cluttered with empty paper cups, old newspapers and several paperback novels. Mysteries, she noted. The great Nolan Adams read mysteries. A container filled with loose change was propped inside his ashtray.
While Maryanne searched for the seatbelt, Nolan raced around the front of the car, slid inside and quickly started the engine. “I hope there’s a place to park off Spring.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Maryanne quickly assured him, “I’ve got valet service.”
Nolan murmured something under his breath. Had she made an effort, she might’ve been able to hear, but she figured she was probably better off not knowing.
He turned up the heater and Maryanne was warmed by a blast of air. “Let me know if that gets too hot for you.”
“Thanks, I’m fine.”
“Hot” seemed to describe their relationship. From the first, Maryanne had inadvertently got herself into scalding water with Nolan, water that came closer to the boiling point each time a new column appeared. “Hot” also described the way they seemed to ignite sparks off each other. The radio show had proved that much. There was another popular meaning of “hot”—one she refused to think about.
Nevertheless, Maryanne was grateful for the opportunity to bridge their differences, because, despite everything, she genuinely admired Nolan’s writing.
They chatted amicably enough until Nolan pulled into the crescent-shaped driveway of The Seattle, the luxury apartment complex where she lived.
Max, the doorman, opened her car door, his stoic face breaking into a smile as he recognized her. When Nolan climbed out of the driver’s side, Maryanne watched as Max’s smile slowly turned into a frown, as though he wasn’t certain Nolan was appropriate company for a respectable young lady.
“Max, this is Mr. Adams from the Seattle Sun.”
“Nolan Adams?” Max’s expression altered immediately. “You don’t look like your picture. I read your work faithfully, Mr. Adams. You gave ol’ Larson hell last month. From what I heard, your column was what forced him to resign from City Council.”
Nolan had given Maryanne hell, too, but she refrained from mentioning it. She doubted Max had ever read her work or was even aware that Nolan had been referring to her in some of his columns.
“Would you see to Mr. Adams’s car?” Maryanne asked.
“Right away, Ms. Simpson.”
Burying his hands in his pockets, Nolan and Maryanne walked into the extravagantly decorated foyer with its huge crystal chandelier and bubbling fountain. “My apartment’s on the eleventh floor,” she said, pushing the elevator button.
“Not the penthouse suite?” he teased.
Maryanne smiled weakly in response. While they rode upward, she concentrated on taking her keys from her bag to hide her sudden nervousness. Her heart was banging against her ribs. Now that Nolan was practically at her door, she wondered how she’d let this happen. After the things he’d called her, the least of which were Ms. High Society, Miss Debutante and Daddy’s Darling, she felt more than a little vulnerable in his company.
“Are you ready to change your mind?” he asked. Apparently, he’d read her thoughts.
“No, of course not,” she lied.
She noticed—but sincerely hoped Nolan didn’t—that her hand was shaking when she inserted the key.
She turned on the light as she walked into the spacious apartment. Nolan followed her, his brows raised at the sight of the modern white leather-and-chrome-furniture. There was even a fireplace.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, glancing around.
She thought she detected sarcasm in his voice, then decided it was what she could expect from him all evening; she might as well get used to it.
“I’ll take your raincoat,” she said. Considering the fondness with which he wore the thing, he might well choose to eat in it, too.
To Maryanne’s surprise, he handed it to her, then walked over to the fireplace and lifted a family photo from the mantel. The picture had been taken several summers earlier, when they’d all been sailing off Martha’s Vineyard. Maryanne was facing into the wind and laughing at the antics of her younger brothers. It certainly wasn’t her most flattering photo. In fact, she looked as if she was gasping for air after being underwater too long. The wind had caught her red hair, its color even more pronounced against the backdrop of white sails.
“The two young men are my brothers. My mom and dad are at the helm.”
Nolan stared at the picture for several seconds and then back at her. “So you’re the only redhead.”
“How kind of you to mention it.”
“Hey, you’re in luck. I happen to like redheads.” He said this with such a lazy smile that Maryanne couldn’t possibly be offended.
“I’ll check the stew,” she said, after hanging up their coats. She hurried into the kitchen and lifted the lid of the pot. The pungent aroma of stewing lamb, vegetables and basil filled the apartment.
“You weren’t kidding, were you?” Nolan asked, sounding mildly surprised.
“Kidding? About what?”
“The Irish stew.”
“No. I put it on this morning, before I left for work. I’ve got one of those all-day cookers.” After living on her own for the past couple of years, Maryanne had become a competent cook. When she’d rented her first apartment in New York, she used to stop off at a deli on her way home, but that had soon become monotonous. Over the course of several months, she’d discovered some excellent recipes for simple nutritious meals. Her father wasn’t going to publish a cookbook written by her, but she did manage to eat well.
“I thought the stew was an excuse not to have dinner with me,” Nolan remarked conversationally. “I didn’t know what to expect. You’re my first deb.”
“Some white wine?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
“Please.”
&nbs
p; Maryanne got a bottle from the refrigerator and expertly removed the cork. She filled them each a glass, then gave Nolan his and carried the bottle into the living room, where she set it on the glass-topped coffee table. Sitting down on one end of the white leather sofa, she slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her.
Nolan sat at the other end, resting his ankle on his knee, making himself at home. “Dare I propose a toast?” he asked.
“Please.”
“To Seattle,” he said, his mischievous gaze meeting hers. “May she forever remain unspoiled.” He reached over and touched the rim of her glass with his.
“To Seattle,” Maryanne returned. “The most enchanting city on the West Coast.”
“But, please, don’t let anyone know,” he coaxed in a stage whisper.
“I’m not making any promises,” she whispered back.
They tasted the wine, which had come highly recommended by a colleague at the paper. Maryanne had only recently learned that wines from Washington state were quickly gaining a world reputation for excellence. Apparently the soil, a rich sandy loam over a volcanic base, was the reason for that.
They talked about the wine for a few minutes, and the conversation flowed naturally after that, as they compared experiences and shared impressions. Maryanne was surprised by how much she was enjoying the company of this man she’d considered a foe. Actually, they did have several things in common. Perhaps she was enjoying his company simply because she was lonely, but she didn’t think that was completely true. Still, she’d been too busy with work to do any socializing; she occasionally saw a few people from the paper, but other than that she hadn’t had time to establish any friendships.
After a second glass of wine, feeling warm and relaxed, Maryanne was willing to admit exactly how isolated she’d felt since moving to Seattle.
“It’s been so long since I went out on a real date,” she said.
“There does seem to be a shortage of Ivy League guys in Seattle.”
She giggled and nodded. “At least Dad’s not sending along a troupe of eligible men for me to meet. I enjoyed living in New York, don’t get me wrong, but every time I turned around, a man was introducing himself and telling me my father had given him my phone number. You’re the first man I’ve had dinner with that Dad didn’t handpick for me since I moved out on my own.”
“I hate to tell you this, sugar, but I have the distinct impression your daddy would take one look at me and have me arrested.”
“That’s not the least bit true,” Maryanne argued. “My dad isn’t a snob, only...only if you do meet him take off the raincoat, okay?”
“The raincoat?”
“It looks like you sleep in it. All you need is a hat and a scrap of paper with ‘Press’ scrawled on it sticking out of the band—you’d look like you worked for the Planet in Metropolis.”
“I hate to disillusion you, sugar, but I’m not Ivy League and I’m not Superman.”
“Oh, darn,” she said, snapping her fingers. “And we had such a good thing going.” She was feeling too mellow to remind him not to call her sugar.
“So how old are you?” Nolan wanted to know. “Twenty-one?”
“Three,” she amended. “And you?”
“A hundred and three in comparison.”
Maryanne wasn’t sure what he meant, but she let that pass, too. It felt good to have someone to talk to, someone who was her contemporary, or at least close to being her contemporary.
“If you don’t want to tell me how old you are, then at least fill in some of the details of your life.”
“Trust me, my life isn’t nearly as interesting as yours.”
“Bore me, then.”
“All right,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “My family was dirt-poor. Dad disappeared about the time I was ten and Mom took on two jobs to make ends meet. Get the picture?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “What about women?”
“I’ve had a long and glorious history.”
“I’m not kidding, Nolan.”
“You think I was?”
“You’re not married.”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged as if it was of little consequence. “No time for it. I came close once, but her family didn’t consider my writing career noble enough. Her father tried to fix me up with a job in his insurance office.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing much. I told her I was going to work for the paper, and she claimed if I really loved her I’d accept her father’s generous offer. It didn’t take me long to decide. I guess she was right—I didn’t love her.”
He sounded nonchalant, implying that the episode hadn’t cost him a moment’s regret, but just looking at him told Maryanne otherwise. Nolan had been deeply hurt. Every sarcastic irreverent word he wrote suggested it.
In retrospect, Maryanne mused one afternoon several days later, she’d thoroughly enjoyed her evening with Nolan. They’d eaten, and he’d raved about her Irish stew until she flushed at his praise. She’d made them cups of café au lait while he built a fire. They’d sat in front of the fireplace and talked for hours. He’d told her more about his own large family, his seven brothers and sisters. How he’d worked his way through two years of college, but was forced to give up his education when he couldn’t afford to continue. As it turned out, he’d been grateful because that decision had led to his first newspaper job. And, as they said, the rest was history.
“You certainly seem to be in a good mood,” her coworker, Carol Riverside, said as she strolled past Maryanne’s desk later that same afternoon. Carol was short, with a pixielike face and friendly manner. Maryanne had liked her from the moment they’d met.
“I’m in a fabulous mood,” Maryanne said, smiling. Nolan had promised to pay her back by taking her out to dinner. He hadn’t set a definite date, but she half expected to hear from him that evening.
“In that case, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but someone has to tell you, and I was appointed.”
“Tell me? What?” Maryanne glanced around the huge open office and noted that several faces were staring in her direction, all wearing sympathetic looks. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Carol moved her arm out from behind her and Maryanne noticed that she was holding a copy of the rival paper’s morning edition. “It’s Nolan Adams’s column,” Carol said softly, her eyes wide and compassionate.
“W-what did he say this time?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. He titled it, ‘My Evening with the Debutante.’”
Chapter Two
Maryanne was much too furious to stand still. She paced her living room from one end to the other, her mind spitting and churning. A slow painful death was too good for Nolan Adams.
Her phone rang and she went into the kitchen to answer it. She reached for it so fast she nearly ripped it off the wall. Rarely did she allow herself to become this angry, but complicating her fury was a deep and aching sense of betrayal. “Yes,” she said forcefully.
“This is Max,” her doorman announced. “Mr. Adams is here. Shall I send him up?”
For an instant Maryanne was too stunned to speak. The man had nerve, she’d say that much for him. Raw courage, too, if he knew the state of mind she was in.
“Ms. Simpson?”
It took Maryanne only about a second to decide. “Send him up,” she said with deceptive calm.
Arms hugging her waist, Maryanne continued pacing. She was going to tell this man in no uncertain terms what she thought of his duplicity, his treachery. He might have assumed from their evening together that she was a gentle, forgiving soul who’d quietly overlook this. Well, if that was his belief, Maryanne was looking forward to enlightening him.
Her doorbell chimed and she turned to glare at it. Wishing her heart would stop pounding, she gulped in a deep breath, then walked calmly across the living room and opened the door.
“Hello, Maryanne,�
� Nolan said, his eyes immediately meeting hers.
She stood exactly where she was, imitating his tactic of leaning against the door frame and blocking the threshold.
“May I come in?” he asked mildly.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He was wearing the raincoat again, which looked even more disreputable than before.
“I take it you read my column?” he murmured, one eyebrow raised.
“Read it?” she nearly shouted. “Of course I read it, and so, it seems, did everyone else in Seattle. Did you really think I’d be able to hold my head up after that? Or was that your intention—humiliating me and...and making me a laughingstock?” She stabbed her index finger repeatedly against his solid chest. “And if you think no one’ll figure out it was me just because you didn’t use my name, think again.”
“I take it you’re angry?” He raised his eyebrows again, as if to suggest she was overreacting.
“Angry! Angry? That isn’t the half of it, buster!” The problem with being raised in a God-fearing, flag-loving family was that the worst thing she could think of to call him out loud was buster. Plenty of other names flashed through her mind, but none she dared verbalize. No doubt Nolan would delight in revealing this in his column, too.
Furious, she grabbed his tie and jerked him into the apartment. “You can come inside,” she said.
“Thanks. I think I will,” Nolan said wryly. He smoothed his tie, which drew her attention to the hard defined muscles of his chest. The last thing Maryanne wanted to do was notice how virile he looked, and she forced her gaze away from him.
Because it was impossible to stand still, she resumed her pacing. With the first rush of anger spent, she had no idea what to say to him, how to make him realize the enormity of what he’d done. Abruptly, she paused at the edge of her living room and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You have your nerve.”
“What I said was true,” Nolan stated, boldly meeting her glare. “If you’d bothered to read the column all the way through, objectively, you’d have noticed there were several complimentary statements.”
“‘A naive idealist, an optimist...’” she said, quoting what she remembered, the parts that had offended her the most. “You made me sound like Mary Poppins!”
Glad Tidings: There's Something About ChristmasHere Comes Trouble Page 19
