by Floyd, Jacie
“Very good, sir.” With a small patronizing bow, Starch faded away from the table.
After a moment’s silence, Annabel ventured a new topic. “Has my insurance company contacted you about fixing your car yet?”
“Yep, I’ll have the Porsche back by Tuesday.” He leaned forward, warming to the subject. “I got three appraisals, but they approved my first choice. A buddy of mine from—”
He stopped mid-sentence as a new presence appeared between them. At Max’s right elbow, a sommelier cradled a towel-wrapped bottle of champagne. The sober-faced young man with his longish hair slicked back, a soul patch, and wire-rimmed glasses set flutes in front of them. Glancing at Max, the sommelier did a double take.
“Hey, dude, aren’t you Max Williams?” He unbent with an enthusiasm that contradicted the waiter’s steely behavior. “I’ve been following that story you broke last month about the county parks commissioner skimming funds. My wife used to work for the parks department and she always said there was something fishy going on. They fired her for being a squeaky wheel. Now, that it’s more than just her word against theirs, maybe she’ll get her job back.”
“I hope she does.” Max transformed himself into his outgoing public persona and shook the sommelier’s outstretched hand. “Keep me posted, okay? I might do a follow-up.”
“I’ll do that. Could I get your autograph? My wife will never believe I met you. You’re her hero.”
“Sure, what’s your name?” He squinted to read the nametag in the dim light. “Alvin, right? You want me to sign this to you or your wife?”
Watching Max scribble his signature across a wine list, Annabel wasn’t sure if Alvin or the Dom Perignon would bubble over first. The sommelier sobered into business-like demeanor after the maitre d’ reappeared and signaled him to get on with business. Alvin expertly uncorked the bottle and poured. Max conducted the ritual tasting with a frown, then said something to Alvin in an undertone. The sommelier nodded and bowed himself away.
Annabel eyed the champagne. She hadn’t tasted any since her wedding night eight years ago. She hadn’t much liked it then. “Who ordered this?”
“Not me. I can’t stand the stuff. I asked Alvin to bring me a scotch.”
“I ordered it,” Roger piped up from behind his camera. “I want a shot of you two clinking glasses. The bubbles make an interesting effect in the candlelight. Raise your glasses and make a toast, Max.”
Annabel expected him to refuse or ignore the direction, the way he had with the kiss. But without further prompting, he held his flute aloft. “Congratulations on the Community First nomination. May the best project win.”
She raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked and sipped. The Dom tasted crisp and refreshing. Annabel sipped again.
“Have you seen any of the other entries?” he asked in the first unsolicited comment he’d made since they’d been seated.
“Sure. They’re pretty good.”
“But not as good as ours.” He smiled. Charismatic, but smug.
She hoped to deflate his ego a little. “Not as good as mine.”
He didn’t make a sound, but the squaring of his shoulders revealed her comment had hit a nerve. “Why is yours the best?”
She sipped her drink and let the bubbles dance around her mouth. Amazing how something so fizzy managed to slide down her throat so smoothly. She sipped again, mentally reviewing the competition. “Randall’s entry is about cleaning up the river. It’s good, but a similar topic won last year. I don’t think this one’s good enough to repeat.”
One of Max’s long, lean fingers circled the rim of his glass. “Same thing about Harris’s piece on police brutality.”
Annabel nodded. “The dark horse is Lynn Dorey’s entry on the Arts’ Commission. She came up with a fresh angle on that, and she’s got a solid reputation.”
“No more solid than yours at Lasting Productions.”
Flustered by the unexpected compliment, she reached for her champagne flute again and found it empty. Without waiting for her to ask, Max refilled her glass.
“If yours is the best, and Lynn’s is next, where do you rank mine?” Max nodded his thanks as Alvin placed a scotch on the rocks in front of him, then delivered a beer to the cameraman.
“I wish I could rank it last, but you’re the big name on the slate. It’s impossible to discount you. The station you work for carries a lot of clout, too.”
“But you don’t think much of my report?” Despite the seeming ease he exhibited while sipping his drink, his eyes glinted at her darkly.
She felt more comfortable with him and thirstier by the minute. “I don’t consider it as weighty as the others.”
“What are you basing your opinion on?”
“The tit-illating subject matter?” She winced over the terrible pun.
“I see. The topics of breast reduction and implant surgery don’t meet your high standards.” His eyes definitely flashed in the glow of the candles. “A subject doesn’t have to be boring or dull to be important, you know.”
She was surprised he seemed as defensive of his work as she would be if he belittled hers. From his reputation, she’d assumed his interest lay in the publicity or the acclaim, not the achievement. Had she judged him unfairly?
“Aside from boosting your station’s sweeps ratings, what were the benefits of your piece for Cincinnati?” she asked. “That’s the yardstick the panel of judges use to select the winner.”
“It caused the butcher performing botched surgeries to lose his medical license, and it convinced a jury to convict him of malpractice.” Max’s intensity revealed his satisfaction in the accomplishment.
Her conscience twitched for underestimating his project as her heart sank. She moved his entry up a notch, even though she still doubted his motives. “But mostly you did it so you could interview exotic dancers, right?”
“Of course. For my money, there aren’t nearly enough stories on the news about strippers.” One side of his perfect mouth turned up in a self-derogatory smile. “What about yours?”
“Challenging Destiny follows twenty promising students through four years at an inner-city high school. We documented their relative success at surviving the pitfalls they faced on a daily basis, everything from gangs and drug abuse to poverty and questionable SAT scores.”
“I’m familiar with the premise.” He settled back in his chair. “What’s the long-range impact?”
“The United Way is using Challenging Destiny in its pledge drive this year.” Her attempt at modesty failed as her cheeks warmed with pride and her smile stretched wide. “And our state representative showed it to the Ways and Means Committee to request an increase in the education budget for latchkey programs.”
He pursed his lips in a low whistle. “Impressive.” He clinked his glass with hers again. “That should wow the judges.”
“I hope so.” Looking down, she discovered her appetizer. When had that arrived? Starch was a sneaky little snob, wasn’t he? She scooped up a bruschetta and bit off a corner. “Would you like a piece?”
“Maybe later.” He smiled and plucked a breadstick out of the basket. Nipping off a crunchy end, he chewed it with relish. Apparently he ate with full-on enjoyment, the same way he did everything.
“I’ll have one of those funky tomato things,” Roger said to Annabel.
She pulled her gaze away from Max’s and offered the plate to the cameraman. “Help yourself.”
Finishing off one bruschetta, she reached for another. The salty olive and anchovy spread increased her thirst, and she detoured toward her glass. Tapenade and champagne paired for a wonderful combination, she discovered.
“Why does winning mean so much to you?” Max propped his chin on a fist.
Avoiding his eyes, which seemed entirely too knowing, she dropped her gaze to his tie. If required to describe the entwining pattern on the silk fabric as a Rorschach test, she’d say the two spiraling peach stripes again
st a charcoal background resembled slender lovers in the night. Very erotic. Almost X-rated. She blinked and focused on his question.
“You may have won a lot of professional awards, but I haven’t.” The temperature in the room must have raised a few degrees. She fingered the top button on her jacket. “As a mom working part-time and a lowly documentary editor, it’s not unusual for me to be brought in during post-production. You know my boss Howard Lasting, right? He indicated winning Community First will improve my chances for developing other projects. With Carly going off to college, I plan to devote more time to my career. And increasing my income wouldn’t hurt either. I’d love a promotion to fulltime producer.”
Annabel stopped and sipped, determined to halt the nonstop stream of words before she revealed anything more intimate or personal. The champagne must be the reason for this motor mouth tendency. She imagined his ridicule if she expressed her secret desire to someday work as a producer for an investigative news team. That would give him personal knowledge of her that she just didn’t trust him to have in his hands.
Suddenly she felt much too warm and too aware of the dawning interest in the depths of his dark, watchful eyes. As she took another sip of the Dom, she unfastened the top button of her jacket.
Their salads came and went almost without notice. Suddenly, the waiter whisked away the empty plates and presented their entrees with a flourish. Hers, a visual masterpiece of colors and textures. His, a butchered, broiled, carnivorous display. Alvin, bless him, also reappeared bearing another bottle of champagne.
Unprompted, Max refilled her glass and encouraged her to raise it for another toast. “To a better understanding between us. We’re halfway there.”
“To a better understanding.” She ignored the little tingle shivering down her spine when her gaze met the challenge in his. A better understanding of what? Halfway where? Neither of them wanted to be anything more than the wary acquaintances they’d always been. Did they? Absolutely not.
Annabel remembered too clearly comforting her friend DeeDee as she sobbed her eyes out, ballooned with pregnancy, after he’d dropped her a couple of years ago. And then there were rumors about a young intern who’d left the station under mysterious and undisclosed circumstances. The station hushed it up, but speculation abounded that Max had caused the college student’s dismissal. The creep.
“Do you remember my friend DeeDee?” She watched and waited for an emotional response.
“DeeDee?” He sipped his scotch and appeared to test the name on his tongue along with the Jack Daniels. Squinting, he avoided looking her in the eyes.
“Yes, DeeDee Stevens. She’s working in Kansas City now.”
“Nice girl,” he said, neutrally. “Good news market.”
“She has a little boy.” Oops, the comment sounded a bit more direct than she intended.
“Does she? I knew she was knocked up when she left town.”
“You don’t know anything else about it, Mr. Sensitive?” She waited breathlessly for his response. “I thought you two dated for a while.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Flash in the pan. We shared some laughs at a time when she was figuring out what she really wanted.”
“Like, a father for her baby?”
“Like that,” he said, shrugging again. “It didn’t have anything to do with me.”
The lukewarm denial left her wanting something more definitive. “Didn’t it?”
“Hold on,” Roger interrupted before she figured out how to get more out of Max. “I want you both to raise your champagne glasses. Then, Annabel, you circle your arm through his before you take a drink. You know, like they do in wedding pictures.”
She bent her arm and followed the instructions. She and Max leaned closer. He smelled even more spicy and delicious than her dinner. “Are you interested in having children?”
Max sputtered and reared back. “Whoa, there, Morgan! Don’t go getting any ideas. There’s not really a wedding in our future.”
Roger groaned over the ruined shot. “Do it again. This time, lock glances and lean into one another like you mean it.”
Annabel tried to put some heat into her gaze, but the look probably came across as irritation more than desire. Shifting closer to him, she whispered, “Get over yourself, Williams. I just wondered if a guy like you has any little ones tucked away somewhere.” Like Kansas City.
For Roger’s benefit, Max gave her a smile seductive enough to melt her strongest defenses, but he answered through gritted teeth. “No, I don’t.”
“Honestly?” She swept her eyelashes downward and processed the response. He sounded sincere but looked annoyed.
“Trust me.” He nuzzled her ear. His breath brushed her neck. “I’d never walk away from a child.”
Breathing in his scent, she wanted to snuggle into him, surrounding herself with his heat and strength. But she hesitated. He’d been vague about his relationship with DeeDee. His reputation insisted he was a jerk with women, albeit a gorgeous, charming, seductive jerk. The most dangerous kind.
“So.” Opting to play it safe, she straightened in her seat. The tension evaporated with the staged moment. They returned their attention to their meals. “About the award. Why do you want to win?”
He looked up and gave her the mocking version of his trademark smile. “Just to keep you from getting it.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows at her in a ‘How about that?’ gesture that almost made her laugh.
“Tell me the truth,” she urged. “You want it, too. As much as I do. I can tell.”
His hand stalled over the strip of beef he’d just sliced. “Are we still talkin’ about the award, darlin’?” True to form, his Southern accent came out full force when he teased or flirted with the opposite sex. Not that he directed it her way very often.
Her temperature spiked a notch. Without a doubt, she simply had to undo another button or faint from heat stroke. He’s a womanizer and a jerk, remember?
“Yes,” she answered after a too-long pause. “Be serious.”
“You’re serious enough for both of us.” Since it was the truth, the quiet observation didn’t sound nearly as insulting as it could have.
“Old news.” She tossed his comment aside with a flick of her fingers. “But really, about you…”
He straightened his shoulders and put down his fork. “Winning might polish up my image.”
Hmmm, she thought he had the exact image he’d earned. Hard-driving, relentless reporter. Rowdy bad-boy. “You’re the leading reporter of the most highly-rated news team in town with a reputation for pursuing a story until you’ve exposed every sordid detail. Your style may not suit my taste, but no one doubts your professional integrity. But your personal image could use some scrubbing up.”
“According to my agent, winning this kind of community service award would benefit both.”
She paused to think about that. What was she missing? “Why would you care?”
“I’d care if I wanted to leave the market.”
It took real effort to keep her mouth from dropping open. The information he’d casually lobbed her way would make a hell of a scoop. And it might very well mean there was an upcoming opening at his station. How many reporters did she know who would kill for a shot at Max’s job? “Are you planning on leaving Cincinnati?”
For a moment, he looked taken aback, then he shrugged again. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“I won’t say a word.” She had the childish impulse to put her fingers to her lips and pretend to turn a key.
“If I hear any rumors,” he warned, “I’ll know where they came from.”
“Not me,” she said.
“Or me,” Roger added.
“Damn!” Max clapped a hand to his forehead. “How did I forget a giant like you was sitting there recording all this?”
“Nah, except for that toast, I quit recording when the entrée arrived. Footage of people chewing is never attractive.”
Except for Max. He c
hews rather well. Clearly, his superior chewing ability was lost on Roger. She concentrated on making sure she didn’t give voice to that opinion.
“Plus,” Max said, “you hate to miss a meal, even for the sake of your art.”
“That, too.” Roger finished off his second steak and swiped his napkin across his mouth. “Especially when the station’s paying. Do we have time for dessert?”
“Do we? It’s—It’s—” Annabel squinted to focus on the blurry hands of the diamond-encrusted watch Carl had given her on their wedding day. She didn’t remember the numbers being this tiny before. Bringing her wrist closer to her eyes, she then pushed it farther away, certain she could see better with a different angle and better lighting.
Where had the time gone? Between eating, drinking, and conversation, they now lagged way behind schedule.
“We’re late! If we leave now, we might make the symphony at intermission.” Lurching to her feet, she grabbed hold of Max’s arm as she toppled into his lap. His arms slid around her waist and he pulled her close. Annabel longed to stay where she was, to see what would happen next, but the look of interest in his eyes sent her head spinning. Confused, she jumped up. “Come on! We have to hurry.”
Max sat beside Annabel front and center in the darkened Music Hall with something she’d call “Wagnerian” booming about them. The music didn’t suck too badly after all. It boomed and reverberated at a pulsing and relentless volume. The musicians suffused the notes with more power and emotion than Max would have expected a stage full of stuffed shirts to produce.
On the way over, he’d nearly run a red light at Annabel’s urging. The only interruption to her concern about missing the first half of the program was her speculation about what music would be presented in the second. He’d pushed the speed limit and imagined her trim body naked just to keep his eyes from glazing over with boredom.
If someone had asked for his opinion on classical music earlier tonight, he would have assumed they meant classic rock or early Elvis. This richness, this invigorating experience that filled the air around Max and set his pulse pounding existed beyond his normal musical boundaries.
