It Takes a Hero

by Gina Wilkins

  Had he really become so used to feminine attention? Or was his nose out of joint because this time the attraction seemed to be all one-sided? His side.

  He tried to convince himself he was taken with her because of her reticence. He’d always had a weakness for a gamble. Though he’d never been tempted by cards or dice, it was the thrill of the challenge—the importance of the stakes—that had drawn him into politics in the first place. And Kristin certainly presented a challenge.

  But he knew it was more than that. It was something about her fathomless dark eyes. Or the full curve of her lower lip. Or the poised, almost regal way she held herself, in rather amusing contrast to her diminutive size. Or the way her nose crinkled just a little when she smiled.

  He’d worked damned hard for those smiles.

  There was something special about Kristin Cole. He just wished he could figure out exactly what it was.

  He watched her as the Lear taxied down the runway. She was writing in her notebook again. He was beginning to dislike that notebook in a way that felt almost like jealousy.

  He cleared his throat rather loudly, pleased when the noise finally got her attention. She looked up and her gaze locked with his. He gave her a smile he’d worked for years to perfect, and with which he’d had some measure of success in the past.

  She studied him a moment, then jotted something down in her notebook.

  His smile dimmed. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably like a bug under a microscope. “Making notes for your next novel?”

  “Maybe the next one,” she agreed. “Or a future book. I jot down anything I think might be useful, then file the notes away until I need them.”

  “And what have you found particularly useful today?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “Notes about all the fascinating sites you showed me. About what it’s like to fly on a private Lear jet. Observations about the political bigwigs we’ve mingled with today—not specific individuals, of course, just general impressions.”

  “Am I in your notes?” he asked, trying to give the conversation a personal spin.

  What might have been the faintest touch of pink stained her cheeks as she closed her notebook and tucked it into her purse. “I told you, I don’t use real people. Only characteristics that intrigue me.”

  “Oh. And is there anything about me that intrigues you?”

  She looked out the window as the plane gathered speed and lifted off the ground. “Remind me to thank our pilot when we get back to New York. Our ride has been very smooth and comfortable so far.”

  Perry decided to let her get away with the obvious distraction. At least she was talking to him, and not scribbling in her notebook. “When are you going back to North Carolina?”

  “In the morning. My flight leaves at nine.”

  “You said you have a deadline approaching?”

  A quick frown crossed her face, almost as if a shadow had passed swiftly in front of her. Her casual tone didn’t match her expression. “Yes. I’ll have to get back to work as soon as I unpack.”

  “When is your book due?”

  Again, he noticed a flicker of an expression he couldn’t quite interpret. “Soon.”

  “How much do you have left to write?”

  “Too much,” she said, then laughed as if she’d made a joke.

  Perry wasn’t so sure she’d been teasing. There was tension in her laughter, a strained quality to her smile. She must be falling a bit behind in her schedule.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said bracingly, trying to offer encouragement.

  For some reason, his words seemed to annoy her more than bolster her. She nodded and looked back out the window.

  Perry swallowed a sigh. She’d shut him out again. But he had never been the kind to admit defeat easily. “Was today all work for you, or did you manage to enjoy some of it?”

  She looked surprised by his question—and then a bit chagrined. “I enjoyed the day very much,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I hope I didn’t give you reason to believe otherwise.”

  “What did you like best?”

  “Lunch on Capitol Hill, definitely,” she said with a smile.

  Encouraged, he nodded. “The food was good, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it was also very interesting watching all the people.”

  He remembered that she’d made lots of notes then. Was she ever not a writer? Did she ever get so involved in anything that she actually forgot to make notes—either mentally or on paper—to use in some future fictional scene?

  He kept her talking about the events of the day during the rest of the flight back to New York. She seemed to be making more of an effort to respond, now that the notebook had been tucked out of sight. Maybe she was finally beginning to relax with him, he thought optimistically. Maybe she simply wasn’t comfortable at first with new people—a bit shy, perhaps. He rather fancied that explanation; it gave him a reason to think he didn’t have to take her reserve personally—and that was a soothing balm to his bruised ego.

  As he’d arranged, the limo was waiting at the airport. Perry was pleased that everything had gone according to schedule, with no awkward delays or missed connections. He made a mental note to slip a bonus to his amazingly efficient secretary. Now, if only the rest of the day went as well, he could write this project off as a success—at least as far as his contribution to the literacy fund-raiser was concerned.

  “We have dinner reservations at eight,” he said once they were on their way to Kristin’s hotel. “That gives us time to freshen up and change.”

  She glanced at her watch and nodded. “That’s plenty of time,” she agreed. “What shall I wear? Formal or informal?”

  “You might want to dress up a bit.” He smiled a bit smugly. “Tonight, I’ve managed to get reservations at...”

  His cellular phone chirped, drowning out the name of the exclusive restaurant Perry planned to take her to. Since he’d left instructions that he was not to be disturbed today except for important matters, he sighed and reached for the phone. “Excuse me,” he said to Kristin. “This should only take a minute. Hello?”

  He knew the moment he heard Marcus’s voice that this was, indeed, an important call. It was all Perry could do not to curse when his apologetic aide explained the situation. He had congratulated himself too soon, it seemed. The rest of the date wasn’t going to proceed as smoothly as he’d hoped. In fact, it wasn’t going to proceed at all.

  And just when he’d thought he was finally making headway with Kristin, damn it.

  He concluded the call a bit tersely and stowed the small, pager-size phone into its belt-clip holder. “Kristin...”

  “You have to cancel dinner, don’t you?” There was no accusation in her voice. “I could tell from your tone that something has come up.”

  He nodded grimly. “I’m really sorry. One of my candidates has gotten himself in a jam in California and I need to get there immediately to handle it.”

  “Something serious, I take it.”

  “Yes. A potential scandal. My team swears it’s something that has been completely fabricated by the opposition, but I have to check it out for myself before I’m asked for any statements.”

  “I understand,” Kristin assured him, and she certainly seemed to.

  “I feel lousy about this. It’s not at all the way I wanted our time together to end.”

  “Please don’t worry about it, Perry. I know you have a very hectic schedule.”

  “Well, yes, but...”

  She rested a hand on his arm. “I really do understand.”

  He looked at her hand. Though the fabric of his shirt lay between her palm and his forearm, he could feel her warmth. Her skin looked very soft, and her fingers were long and delicately shaped. His mind was filled suddenly with an image of that pretty hand stroking his bare skin, her trim, pink nails digging into his back.

  He shook his head slightly to banish the pictures, wondering where the hell they’d come from. Whateve
r had spurred the image, he told himself it had nothing to do with his next words. “I’d like to make this up to you. If you’ll give me your home number, I’ll call when everything settles down and we can...”

  She pulled her hand away, her smile looking a bit forced. “That really isn’t necessary. You went to a lot of trouble to entertain me last night and again today. More than I ever expected. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “But...”

  The limousine stopped at the front of her hotel. A helpful porter appeared almost immediately to open her door. She scooted toward the opening. “Don’t get out. I know you’re in a hurry. Good luck with your crisis, Perry. I’m sure if anyone can handle it, you can”

  She seemed to be in a hurry to send him on his way. If she was at all disappointed that their date had ended so abruptly, she certainly didn’t allow him to see it. His ego took another nosedive. He reached out to catch her arm.

  “You’ll be hearing from me again, Kristin Cole,” he murmured, leaning toward her. Before she could realize his intentions, he covered her mouth with his.

  He had wondered if those amazing kisses last night had been a one-time phenomenon. He’d half expected that kissing her again would prove to be just a pleasant diversion—certainly nowhere near as incredible as those first impulsive kisses had been. He’d been quite certain that lightning wouldn’t strike twice in this same place in this situation. That his reactions to her last night had been exaggerated by champagne or the fact that they’d been alone outside her room after an evening of romantic music and dancing.

  There’d been no champagne today. No tuxedos or evening gowns to create a pretty illusion. Instead of dancing, they’d spent hours sightseeing, “doing the tourist thing,” as he’d teasingly referred to it earlier. And they weren’t alone now in a softly lit hotel hallway in the middle of the night, but in a limo with a driver behind the wheel, a porter waiting patiently at the door, and a steady flow of people passing outside the car.

  And still his head was spinning. Kissing Kristin Cole was a great deal more than a pleasant diversion.

  He wasn’t sure which of them drew back first. Kristin’s eyes were wide and her cheeks bright pink when she slid somewhat clumsily out of the limo, clutching the porter’s hand for support. “Goodbye, Perry,” she said, her voice sounding high and breathless.

  He watched her almost run into the hotel.

  No, he thought. Not goodbye. Though she didn’t know it yet, he would be seeing her again.

  As the limo pulled away from the curb, he found himself wondering if Kristin was even now making notes about their kisses for use in a future love scene.

  4

  KRISTIN WONDERED HOW LONG it would take to learn accounting. Or dentistry. Or maybe she could become a forest ranger. She had to do something to support herself now that every ounce of creativity inside her seemed to have dried up.

  During the two weeks that had passed since she’d returned home from New York, she had written ten pages...and they were about as exciting as wallpaper paste. She’d spent the first two days writing a character sketch of her hero. Granted, it had been an exercise in procrastination, but she had hoped it would kick-start her writing. She’d drawn heavily on her notes and memories of Perry Goodman, creating a list of potential characteristics that she’d printed out and pinned to the bulletin board next to her computer. That was the last thing she’d accomplished that was even slightly worthwhile.

  She’d thought quite a bit about Perry since she’d been home. That was only natural, of course, since she was creating a character loosely based on him. The problem was that her hero wasn’t coming to life. He moved through the pages as mechanically as a windup toy. And when she tried to express her equally insipid heroine’s instant fascination with the guy, the scenes came out stilted and trite. Kristin felt as though she had forcibly pried every word from her stubborn, uncooperative mind. It was an exhausting and unsatisfying process.

  Maybe she should become a firefighter, she mused, lifting her hands from the keyboard to cover her face. She’d always rather liked those shiny red helmets.

  Even the videos she always watched when she needed inspiration weren’t working for her this time. In the past few days alone, she’d watched Somewhere in Time, While You Were Sleeping, Titanic, Speed, Ladyhawke—movies with romantic relationships that usually never failed to motivate her. Love that won out despite the odds, or was found in the most unlikely places. Dashing men and women who were willing to die for each other, if necessary.

  But there was no inspiration this time. She simply couldn’t re-create that feeling when she sat down to write. Her characters remained flat, their affections for each other tepid. And Kristin was getting very close to throwing her computer out her office window in sheer frustration.

  Her telephone rang. She considered letting the machine answer for her. It could be her agent or her editor, and she was in no mood to talk to either of them. Or it might be her mother, rattling on about her scintillating social life—which now included the airline pilot, who’d developed a serious crush on Sophie while dangling from a parachute five thousand feet above solid ground.

  Since Kristin had hardly left her house the past two weeks, Sophie was becoming increasingly concerned about her daughter. “How can you find any inspiration sitting alone inside your office?” she had asked several times. “You need to get out, mingle with people, gather ideas. Live a little romance, so it will be easier to write about it.”

  Though.Kristin hadn’t said so at the time, she had begun to worry that the reason she was having so much trouble writing about love was because somehow, sometime during the past few months, she had stopped believing in it. At least for herself. Of course she hadn’t implied such a thing to Sophie, who would have been scandalized at the very suggestion.

  The telephone pealed again—the last ring before the machine would pick up. Impulsively, Kristin snatched up the receiver. Any diversion had to be better than the torment of trying to finish chapter one. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Kristin, it’s Maggie. I know you’re probably working and I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted, but have you got a minute?”

  Kristin had to smile. Maggie Gibson’s idea of a “minute” was usually closer to a half hour or more—even though she called long-distance from her home in Illinois. “You know I always have time for you, Mags. What’s up?”

  “I’m having trouble with the conflict in my book. Would you mind doing a little brainstorming with me? I’ll sum up the plot for you and you tell me if it’s as lame as I’m afraid it is.”

  Kristin didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This type of call was certainly not unusual between writers. It was the main reason they so loved getting together at conferences. Theirs was basically solitary work, and getting together allowed them to form a network of friends with whom they could whine and share writing-and-publishing “war stories.” She’d made many similar calls herself, wanting to get another writer’s input on motivation or conflict or pacing or editorial suggestions—and no one understood a writer’s problems like another writer.

  She hadn’t called anyone, however, about the problems she’d been grappling with lately. She wasn’t sure that what was wrong with her now could be fixed with a simple phone call. And she still couldn’t bring herself to voice the words writer’s block—or the even worse-sounding phrase, burned-out.

  “Tell me your plot, Maggie. Let’s see if I can find any problems.”

  Maybe she could help her friend through this relatively minor dilemma—even if she couldn’t seem to do anything about her own personal crisis.

  PERRY WAS ATTENDING another political fund-raiser, this one a $2,500-dollar-a-plate dinner, with the governor of New Jersey as the evening’s featured speaker. As was socially expected of him, Perry had brought a date. The whole dating situation was becoming tricky for him these days. If he was seen too often in the company of one particular woman, the gossip mills—and sometimes the woman, herself—rea
d more into it than Perry intended. If he took a different date to every event, he ran the risk of being seen as a “playboy” type, not to be taken seriously.

  He’d compromised by cultivating a few good friends who didn’t mind being seen at various functions with him, who wanted nothing more from him than companionship and an entrée into his glittering social circles. Elspeth Moore was one of those generous women. Each time he was photographed with her, they were identified only as “friends and associates,” which suited them both perfectly.

  He took a bite of his dinner and had to make a massive effort not to shudder. “Yum,” he murmured. “Rubber duckie à l’orange. Again.”

  Elspeth stifled a giggle. “At least you’ve identified one of the dishes. What’s this green glop supposed to be?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Purréed tree moss, I believe.”

  Elspeth’s eyes were bright with amusement, but her carefully trained expression gave no clue to their impudent conversation. “I can’t tell you what it means to me that you brought me along. I’ll certainly try to return the favor. Maybe you’d like to accompany me to the next ladies’ potluck luncheon I’m invited to attend.”

  “Green bean casseroles and gelatin molds stuffed with miniature marshmallows.” He gave her a look. “I’m terribly sorry, Elspeth, but I think I’m busy that day.”

  “What a pal.” She took a bite of her green glop and managed a smile as her eyes met those of the woman across the table. “I’m definitely going to repay you, Perry,” she said through her brightly smiling teeth.