I watch him, moving my head from one side to the other as people walk by, trying to keep him in sight. He's tall. Powerfully built. There's something regal about him, the kind of unassuming grace and authority that comes to those surrounded by wealth and power their whole lives. Where they don't have to flaunt it like the nouveau riche, but rather simple exude a calm and disarming sense of confidence that you just can't fake.
"He looks pretty athletic," I say, glancing at Erin. She's an expert.
"Amazing body. But he doesn't race or run or do anything that I can tell. I'm sure he hits the gym, but he's what we call a freak of nature. Perfect body, minimum effort. I know guys who have worked out for five, ten years, and still don't get into that kind of shape."
I turn to her. "You sound like you've seen him in a Speedo."
Erin laughs again, but she also blushes. She likes him, I realize. "Oh, no, not a Speedo. But I held his arm once at an event, and he's rock solid. Muscled. I managed to slip my arm around his waist at one point, and there wasn't a hint of flab. Nothing but sculpted abs and muscle." She takes a deep breath, then sighs like a schoolgirl. "I bet he can make love for hours. And not even muss his hair."
We both stand there mooning over him, and then he looks our way. Smiling politely, nodding at some comment, he simply turns to scan the crowd and our eyes lock. Mine flare wide. He doesn't look away. If anything, he just stares at me all the more intensely, as if the whole black tie event has suddenly faded away into the background. My throat constricts, my pulse races, and I feel like I'm having a heart attack. With a convulsive wrench I tear my eyes away, duck my head, and, half panicked, step behind Erin.
"Myra?" Erin turns around. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I croak. I down my champagne in one gulp. "Maybe panicking. A little."
"Panicking?" Erin hands me her champagne in sympathy, and I take a sip of that too.
"Yes." I straighten. "Alexander looked my way."
"Hmm, I noticed." Erin glances back across the crowd, but it's closed around him and blocked him from view. "Why didn't you give him a flirtatious wink?"
"A wink?" My voice is a squeak. "I nearly peed my panties. His eyes. They were... so intense. As if for that moment there was nothing else in the world but him and me. As if he could see right into my soul!" I realize I'm just babbling. "It was too much! It was like being mugged. I wasn't ready for that kind of stare!"
Erin clucks and shakes her head. "Well, I sure wish he'd stared at me that way. I would have given him a deadly come-hither kind of wink."
I sigh. "Well, you're clearly more cool and sophisticated than I am." A waiter drifts by with a tray of canapés, and Erin and I grab a couple. "So, how do you think I can get a quote from him?"
"A quote? That would involve speaking to him. Do you feel capable of such a dangerous thing?"
I stick my tongue out at her, and then realize I'm supposed to be acting all fancy at this black tie event. "Of course. I am a consummate professional when I'm ready to be. And mildly tipsy."
"Well, first we eat our very expensive dinners. Then there's an auction, then everybody mingles. If you can last that long, you might be able to corner him."
I stare at the round tables with their expensive-looking plates, silverware, and dozens of wine glasses. Ice sculptures are starting to glisten at the center of each one. " Erin, I know I shouldn't ask, but how did you get me in here?"
Erin shrugs a muscular shoulder. "I know the event coordinator at the Deering Estate. I called in a favor, and voilà. An extra plate was set, free of charge."
"Well, free of financial charge." I know how these things work. Erin either used up an expensive favor, or now owes somebody big time.
Erin takes another champagne flute as it drifts by on a tray, and clinks my glass. "All the more reason to enjoy ourselves. I don't know who you're seated with, but I'm sure you'll do well. I'm going to head to my table. I think dinner is starting."
" Erin," I say, touching her elbow. "Thank you. For this last-second Hail Mary pass. You're the best."
Erin gives me a genuinely warm smile. "A pleasure. See you in a few." With that she turns and heads to a table that's enviably close to the stage. My table, it turns out, is at the back, close to the door the waiters use. I find my name card and pull out my chair, smiling politely to the others who are already seated. There's an old couple dressed as if it's the 19th century, a massively hairy and angry-looking man, and a young professional couple who are clearly very much in love.
Dinner is amazing. I mean that literally. I am constantly in a state of amazement by what they serve. There are eight dishes, each new one served as the previous one is whisked away, with a variety of little portions on each. The only term I can use to describe the food is 'fusion cuisine', as Thai is mixed with Mexican, French contrasted with Japanese, and so forth. It is all, however, ridiculously delicious, and when coupled with the fabulous wines, I find it allows me to open up and engage the others in conversation.
The old couple is delightful: a Mr. and Mrs. Rosenblum, who, I quickly realize, are delighted to talk about their past and share anecdotes about their latest travels in Europe regardless of what I ask them. After a good ten minutes of listening, eyes wide, I turn the hairy man to my left and try talking to him.
I quickly change my mind. Five minutes of hearing about his research on man-and-dolphin sex in the wild are sufficiently bizarre to make me stare across at the young couple, who are sane and a pleasure to talk to. One plate follows another, and before I realize what's going on the meal is over, little shavings of sorbet are served on a bed of dark, dark chocolate cake, and then the auction begins.
That drags on forever. Tickets to events are sold, along with some paintings, followed by a number of gaudy pieces of jewelry. A sketch by Chagall, and then I can't take it anymore. I mutter something politely and stand, dropping my napkin, then move back out into the lobby.
The main part of the lobby is well lit, but there's a dark annex beyond it with armchairs and huge windows looking out into the street. It's the perfect place to steal a moment alone and prepare myself to tackle the crowds that will no doubt surround my target. I step into the shadows, and see that somebody is standing beside the grand piano, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring out into the night.
It's Alexander Adams.
I nearly trip, my heels suddenly treacherous. I windmill my arms, sway alarmingly from one side to the other, knees bent, and then in my desperation grab onto a tall fern, causing it to rustle loudly as I catch myself, just as Adams glances over.
I immediately try to strike a casual pose, and shake the fern once or twice as if correcting its posture. My poise regained, if not my dignity, I look over at Alexander as if I'm surprised to see him, and give him my most innocent smile. "Oh. Hello."
"Is everything all right?" His voice. Oh, lordy, burnt sugar with a hint of a growl to it, masculine and educated. It skips my ears and goes right to my knees. He could give me an unforgettable night just by describing the weather.
"Oh, yes." I try to sound airy and unconcerned. "I was making sure this fern was OK." Even as the words slip out of my mouth I want to die. A thousand dollar favor, an afternoon spent in a salon, clothing purchased that I'll have to return tomorrow, all of it arranged to talk to this incredible hunk of a man, and here I am blowing my only chance.
"And?" He arches an eyebrow.
I don't understand. "And?"
"The fern?" He gestures with his glass of whiskey. "How is it?"
I inhale and consider the plant critically. Reach out to brush it, give it a little shake, and then nod. "It will do, I suppose." I don't know what I'm saying. "For now. If it continues to behave."
He smiles, and I nearly swoon, the back of my hand to my forehead kind of sensation and all. This isn't even remotely fair. He's destroying all my defenses without even trying.
"Oh, good. I wouldn't want to have to explain unruly ferns to the press," he says. "It's not supposed to be th
at kind of event."
I nod gravely and step around the fern, a little closer to him. In the shadows of the annex, the black part of his tux seems to melt into gloom, while the white shirt and his blue eyes seem to almost glow. And I get a hint - just a sense – of... melancholy? What is he doing out here during his own fundraiser?
"I'm Myra Cole," I say, extending my hand.
"Alexander Adams," he says, and shakes my hand. "A pleasure to meet you." His hand is large, surprisingly callused, as if he isn't a stranger to manual labor, and warm.
"The pleasure is mine," I say. I want to ask him what he's doing out here. Why his smile is touched by sadness. But instead I raise my chin and assume my most professional attitude. "I must warn you."
His eyebrow goes back up. Oh, my. He's got a Cary Grant/George Clooney kind of elegance and sophistication. Hot without trying to be. "Warn me?" I can hear a hint of amusement in his deliriously delicious voice.
"Why, yes. I'm a member of the press. I'm with the Boston Globe. So to be fair, I'll give you five seconds to run."
Alexander cocks his head to one side as he takes me in, from pumps to French twist, and his smile is quizzical, curious. "Run? Why on earth would I want to run from you?"
Did he just say that? My heart tries to do the high jump and collides with the bar. I gulp, fighting to keep my cool expression. "Because. I came to this event with nefarious intentions."
He takes a step closer. The ice clinks in his drink. I could reach out and touch him now. He smells amazing. No cologne, just a masculine scent, clean and enticing. His blue eyes are smoldering, as if embers from a campfire are burning in their depths. "Just how nefarious are we talking, here?"
I smile apologetically. "I'm on the hunt. I'm closing in on my prey."
"Prey?" His smile is dangerous. "I am nobody's prey."
I lower my voice. Not on purpose. It's just that suddenly I can barely breathe. "Oh, yes, you are. You're mine."
Alexander takes another step closer. There are only inches between us now. Where are these words of mine coming from? I'm possessed, insane, speaking as if I were a femme fatale and not a chubby reporter who spends her evenings at home like some kind of shut-in. It's his eyes, I tell myself. There's a sadness there that I have to understand. It's his lips. His everything.
"Alexander!" A voice calls from the lobby, low but pitched to carry. We both look back, and I see a young man in a suit who's beckoning urgently. "Two minutes till you're up!"
Alexander takes a deep breath, then turns back to me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to regretfully escape your clutches."
My mind races. "An interview. One quick interview. That's all I ask." He bites his lower lip in a way that makes me want to kiss him. I know he knows he shouldn't. An exclusive interview just as he's crafting his message, his platform? "It's the least you can do," I say quickly. "To pay me back for keeping your ferns in line."
He laughs, and it's a warm, golden sound, like sunshine pouring through opened shutters in the late afternoon. "Well, in that case. But nothing on the record." He hesitates, and his eyes narrow just a fraction. "Dinner, tomorrow."
"Sure." He could be proposing we meet in a sewage processing plant for breakfast and I'd agree. "Here's my card. Will you call me?"
He takes it without looking and slips it inside his jacket. "Count on it, Miss Cole." And with that he strides past me, and I turn to watch him cross the lobby, handsome and confident and without a trace of that sadness I saw haunting his face. His aide ushers him into the ballroom and I drift after him but remain at the door. I watch as Alexander climbs up onto the stage to standing applause, hands raised as if asking people to not be so generous, and takes the mike.
His speech is perfect. Short, humorous, but given with real heart and ending on a fighting note that stirs the blood and earns him another round of vigorous applause. The women, I notice wryly, are applauding louder than the men. Alexander smiles broadly, reaches out to shake hands with people who step up to him, and then the lights dim slightly as more upbeat music begins to play. I know how this will play out. People will begin to dance while backroom deals are made, securing larger contributions and campaign promises.
Erin catches sight of me and walks over. "Is everything OK?"
"Oh, not too bad," I say. "I'm having dinner with Alexander tomorrow night."
"Right," says Erin, smiling. "Come on. Let's see if we can get you close."
"No," I say, taking her arm as she moves to lead me into the crowd. "I'm serious. Dinner tomorrow, though the interview is to be off the record."
Erin stares at me, disbelieving, and then her eyes go wide. "Seriously?"
Only then does it really hit me. Dinner. With Alexander Adams, the new mayoral candidate. Forget the story. I'm going to sit across from him for a whole dinner, one on one. What have I done? My eyes go wide with sudden panic. What will I say? How can I keep up my end of the conversation for a whole hour? By telling him about my favorite Netflix series?
"Myra?" Erin takes my arm. "Are you OK?"
"Mostly," I whisper. "Just a little panic attack. A very little one. What will I wear? How can I be witty and charming for a whole hour?"
Erin grins and gives me a squeeze. "You'll do great. But how? How did this happen? And when? Were you passing secret notes all through dinner?"
I laugh weakly and tell her about my attack on the fern and Alexander's subsequent interest. And my lines. Did I really tell him he was my prey? Oh, god. What was I thinking? "I'm certifiable," I tell Erin knowingly. "I said the craziest things to him. I told him I would give him a five-second running start before I attacked."
Erin snorts with amusement. "Maybe that's why he agreed to dinner. Watch out, Myra. You may find dinner turning into something else."
I startle and then frown at Erin. "Yeah, right. No way." Erin waggles her eyebrows, and I thwap her arm. "No way!"
"Come on," she says, laughing. "Let's get some more drinks."
I shake my head. The idea of hanging around doesn't appeal at all. I'm overwhelmed as it is. And - well, I don't want him to see me just standing there with a drink in my hand. Instinct tells me to leave, to let him think about me without seeing me around. "No, I'm going to head out. But thank you, Erin. A million times over."
Erin smiles that wonderful smile of hers again. "You're welcome. Promise me you'll tell me how tomorrow goes."
"Oh, sure. I haven't done any disaster reporting before, but tomorrow's as good a time to start as any."
Erin snorts again and kisses my cheek. I head back to the coat check, grab my overcoat, and step out into the freezing Boston night. I still can't believe it. All the way home in the cab, I keep telling myself: I'm having dinner with Alexander Adams. Tomorrow night. I can't believe it!
God help me.
Chapter 3
Now, I'm a real professional. When push comes to shove, I'm not afraid to do some real work. Which is why I hit the office at eight the next morning, a cup of joe in hand the size of a plant pot. I smile and wave at my co-workers, then get to work researching Mr. Alexander Adams. I'm going to know more about him by the time we have dinner than the IRS.
Except... after a few hours of research, I keep coming up with a big blank. There's no information on him dating back more than thirteen years ago. It's as if he stepped out of the wilderness when he enrolled at Harvard. I call their admissions office on the off chance they're willing to share his application, but a) they're closed and b) I know they never would. Where did he go to high school? Where was he born? Why is there such a huge, gaping hole in his past?
Most people would be dismayed at hitting such a wall. Me? I love it. For me, there's nothing like a challenge. So I start calling around. Over the years of being one crazy-dedicated reporter, I've established a surprisingly large number of contacts. Freddie, a patrolman from Southie, confirms that Mr. Adams has no criminal record. No surprise there. I head over to the public library and spend a couple of hours going through old newspapers, s
canning for any mention of Mr. Adams. Here he is at a town hall meeting supporting a pay raise for teachers. Here he is at a climate change rally, arguing that we need to be better stewards of our planet. Here he is at the tragedy that struck Boston a couple of years ago, holding hands with a grieving mother.
All that in the last six months. Before then? He was an aide to Samantha Briggs, a previous commissioner. No speeches or quotes then. Before that? He was involved in Roger Delcarte's failed run for mayor as a lower echelon aide. I call both Briggs and Delcarte, and both of them speak in glowing terms of Alexander, recounting his initiative, integrity, and tireless energy. Yet when I ask them about his past, they both draw blanks. Neither of them knows anything about his life before college.
Interesting. I ride the subway up to Cambridge, and go to Harvard's library, where I go through yearbooks until I find Alexander. Class of 2002. I examine his youthful face. It's fascinating. Even then, he had his clear-eyed, confident stare, his regal bearing. I read his quote:
An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.
Martin Luther King, Jr. I nod, and see that he was a member of crew, of the wrestling team, captain of the debate team, led the Model United Nations delegation, and on and on. The list is enormous. Nothing about his past. I then go to the school newspaper and go through all the issues that came out while he was in school. It takes another four hours, but finally I strike gold. An article was written about a dozen seniors who had scored jobs in politics, and one of them is Alexander Adams. In his little profile, I finally catch a name: Honeycomb Falls. His hometown.
I grab my phone and Google it. There: a small town in Western Mass, tiny population, almost on the border with Vermont. Some photographs show an idyllic place, the kind of small town that most politicians describe when they talk about 'Main Street'. It's actually really cute.
I have to admit I'm disappointed. For all the secrecy, I'd kind of expected something sordid, like his having been raised by a cult or something. Huh. Well, I guess I'll ask him about his childhood when I see him tonight.
A Lion After My Own Heart: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 5) Page 2
