by Penny McCall
The audience drew its collective breath, and Hollie realized she’d crossed a line in her zeal to be a hard-hitting journalist. Her eyes flicked to the producer, the audience, back to Norah. She consulted the paper in her hands, remembered what it was, and laid it carefully on the table beside her chair, like it had grown eight legs and venom-filled fangs. “Um . . .” she sputtered. “Ah . . .”
“A simple ‘I’m sorry’ will do,” a male voice said. A very deep male voice. The kind that commanded attention.
Like everyone else in the studio, Norah instantly gave him that attention, twisting around in her chair, her mouth dropping open when she laid eyes on him because, wow, did he live up to the voice. The phrase tall, dark, and handsome must have been invented for him, she thought, only they forgot to add the muscles, and the thousand-watt smile, and the way he carried himself, like the planet had been created so he’d have a place to walk around and show off those muscles and that smile. It wasn’t arrogance, though, more like he was 100 percent comfortable in his own skin. The ultimate urban legend for a psychologist, someone with no phobias or eccentricities or downright craziness. Except for the way he was looking at her.
He was looking at her like he loved her—no, like she was the love of his life.
His eyes were locked on her face, his smile widened, and his pace quickened. Long legs carried him across the stage, and boy did he know how to walk, loose-hipped, arms swinging, easy, confident, strides. And he was walking straight to her.
Norah pushed back into her chair, the impact of him was so overwhelming, and even though she knew he was pretending, and every suspicious bone in her body was jangling like wind chimes, and she was pretty sure she should run like hell, she just sat there, palpitating and perspiring. Definite sexual arousal, the very symptoms she’d described to Hollie, some calm, clinical part of herself observed—the same part that was urging her to get herself out of his damage path. Apparently, however, physical action was beyond her. The only movement she managed was to curl her hands around the arms of her chair so she didn’t launch herself at him.
Not that she would have had to, since he bent down and planted one on her, a kiss that was soft at first, questioning, and when she melted against him because she couldn’t do anything else, he took it deeper, took her to a place where there wasn’t an audience, just him, the heat of his mouth, the tangle of his tongue, the taste of him, shooting right to her spinning head, with an edge of danger that must have come from kissing a complete stranger. And liking it. Too mild a word, she thought as he pulled back, just enough to look into her eyes before he dropped another quick kiss on her lips and straightened. Like was definitely the wrong descriptor, but there weren’t enough words in the English language to describe what that kiss had done to her.
He shook Hollie’s hand—she was speechless, too, along with the entire audience—then he turned back to Norah, winking as he perched on the side of her chair and draped an arm casually over her shoulders as if they’d known each other forever.
“You know, Hollie,” he said with a wide smile that completely camouflaged the sucker punch he was about to deliver, “you really aren’t equipped to play mind games with a psychologist.”
OKAY, IT WAS A CHEAP SHOT, PROMPTED BY SOME unexpectedly strong protective instincts, but Trip thought Hollie Whatsis, the plastic blond talk show host, was being a jerk. Sure, Norah had given as good as she got, but Norah was the guest, and there was such a thing as hospitality, even in television. He gave Norah a sidelong glance and flashed back to that kiss, and hospitality took on a whole different meaning. As in, they’d be spending a lot of time together, he and Norah, and he wondered just how hospitable she might be. It was the last thing he should be thinking.
Convenient, Trip decided, that there was some life-and-death stuff and some crime-of-the-century action, with a long-lost stolen treasure caveat, to take his mind off the three-dimensional reality of a woman who was only supposed to be a means to an end. And not that end, he reminded himself when his upper lip began to sweat and his pulse pounded hard—everywhere—and he began to wonder if that kiss had been such a brilliant idea. Sure it had accomplished his goal, which was to insert himself into Norah’s life in such a way that she couldn’t easily denounce him, not after she’d kissed him back in such a public forum. He hadn’t actually anticipated the kissing back part. That had been unexpected, and while it sealed her fate, the side effects for him were irritating. And inconvenient.
He focused on the big picture, adding the kiss and his reaction to the list of things about Norah MacArthur he intended to ignore. The list did not include sticking around on the stage. The stage was little more than a shooting gallery, and he wasn’t talking about Holly’s paltry verbal barbs. He doubted anyone would take pot-shots at Norah in front of so many witnesses, but why risk it?
“I think we’re done here,” he said to Norah, taking her by the hand and pulling her out of her chair while she was still doing the deer-in-the-headlights thing and was too muddled to resist.
“But . . . What . . . Who are you?” Hollie sputtered. She grabbed a couple sheets of paper and brandished them. “It says here Norah isn’t currently dating anyone.”
“Cheap researchers,” Trip said with a smile. “Budget problems?”
A red flush crept up Hollie’s neck. But he had to give her credit—she recovered quickly, and she backed off the subject of Chicago in the Morning’s money troubles, introducing the next guest instead as he and Norah exited stage left.
Norah was no slouch, either. He’d thought she was too dazed and confused to give him any trouble; as soon as they were out of camera range she tore her hand from his, and he knew differently. The look in her eyes, narrowed and sharp as they met his, confirmed it. She’d assessed the situation and chosen not to make a public scene. A woman with that kind of quick mind and resolute self-control would be no picnic for him to con. As if he had a choice.
But first he had to get her by the Amazon in the wings, a string bean of a woman with an inch of spiky red hair—barn red hair—and a look of avid determination in her eyes. Short of a Taser, or maybe a .45, they weren’t getting around her.
Norah didn’t even try, planting herself in front of the woman and huffing out a breath. “Can you believe that? She did a sexual history on me.”
The woman shrugged. “Don’t sweat it,” she said around a wad of gum. “Probably nothing she didn’t get from your biography. And it was worth it if she smoked him”—she pointed a bony figure at Trip—“out of the woodwork.”
“I’m not a cockroach.”
“You are an unwelcome pest,” Norah observed. “I just haven’t established the species yet.”
“I’d settle for a name.”
“My agent, Myra Newcastle, meet—”
“You can call me Trip.”
“Fitting,” Norah muttered, “since we’ve crossed into the Twilight Zone.”
“Is there a last name?”
“Jones,” Trip said.
Myra took the hand he offered, and sighed. “It’s nice to look a man in the eyes once in a while.”
In the eyes? Hell, she had at least an inch on him, and he was over six feet tall.
“So, Trip,” Myra said, voice direct, studying his face, “I’ve known Norah at least three years, well enough that I would have sworn she’d tell me about someone like you. How long have you two—”
“Years,” Trip supplied. “We were young and foolish.”
“I was never foolish,” Norah put in. “At least I never used to be.”
“You were the one who broke up with me, remember?”
“That wins the crazy contest in my book,” Myra said.
Norah folded her arms. “This would be the book you’re judging by its cover, right?”
“Touché,” Myra said, turning back to Trip with an expectant look on her face, waiting for the rest of the story.
Trip was only too happy to oblige. The deeper he pulled Norah into the pret
ense, the harder it would be for her to dig herself out. “I just got back to the States, and I couldn’t wait to see Norah again.” She frowned at him, so he tweaked her playfully on the nose.
Norah didn’t take it for the affectionate gesture he’d intended. “You were quite a surprise,” she said, smiling sweetly as she swatted him not so playfully.
Trip slung an arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him. He took an elbow in the ribs, but the sound of her breath whooshing out was worth it.
Myra opened her mouth, looking concerned about the physicality of their “relationship.”
Trip cut her off. “Norah and I need to talk. She’ll catch up with you later.”
“Well then,” Myra said as she handed Norah’s purse over, “I’ll leave you to your reunion. Try not to cause any permanent damage.”
Trip didn’t need any more urging, hustling Norah past the Amazon, who yelled out, “Call me,” to Norah, but didn’t come after them.
Not that Norah needed the protection. As soon as they were out of Myra’s eyesight she shoved Trip’s arm off and rounded on him. “Who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing?”
“Those things didn’t seem to be such a pressing issue a few minutes ago.”
“I had to play along onstage.”
“And what about your agent? Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
Norah whipped around and headed off, pulling out her cell phone as she went. “You’re right, I should be honest with her. Maybe she’ll know how to deal with you.”
Trip plucked the phone out of her hand and shut it off. “I don’t need to be dealt with.”
She took her phone back. “Would there be any point in getting a restraining order?”
“What for?” Trip took her phone again, without being obnoxious about it this time, and dropped it into her purse. “You didn’t exactly push me away in there. Nobody will believe you need protection from me.”
“I should file a police report, at the very least.”
“Go ahead, you’ll get laughed out of the station house.”
“Hollie’s show is syndicated, but it’s a late-morning program.”
“Maybe only the stay-at-home moms of Chicago saw your interview this morning, but by this time tonight the rest of America, not to mention parts of Canada and Mexico, will have seen the clip of you and me kissing. Then there’s the verbal catfight between you and Hollie. And before you tell me nobody cares, you should remember why your agent booked you on this show. You’re a pretty big deal right now.”
“The kind of ‘big deal’ an unscrupulous man like you would try to capitalize on. So why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”
“Do you really think I’m a threat?”
“I don’t know, but it’s wrong to perpetrate this kind of . . . fraud . . .”
Trip stopped walking when she did, both of them staring through the glass doors that led to the parking lot, except they couldn’t see the parking lot because of the reporters and cameramen crowded around the exit, not in Paris Hilton numbers, but enough to be daunting.
“Well,” Trip said as they were spotted and the handful of reporters crowded closer to the door, “if you want to set the record straight, here’s your chance.”
chapter 2
NORAH TUGGED ON THE BOTTOM OF HER jacket, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward, prepared to call his bluff. Damn her and her straightforward ilk.
He caught her by the arm, tugged her back. “Just hear me out,” Trip said, “then you can send me away if you want to.”
“Fine,” she said, but she took off, out the door, through the crowd on the other side, going as fast as she could in an attempt to ditch Chicago’s anemic form of paparazzi, which turned out to be junior reporters from the Sun Times and the Tribune with a couple of freelancers thrown in for variety.
And she couldn’t ditch them because she was wearing heels. Not great for speed-walking, but they did amazing things for her legs. Too bad she wore such unflattering clothes. Trip could tell there was a decent package inside the ugly wrapping—not one of those Hollywood stick figures—he liked curves, and she moved with the kind of grace that told him she knew how to operate the equipment. Her face was good, too, pretty rather than beautiful, and full of character.
But it was the mind that worried him. Norah MacArthur was neither stupid nor naïve. She was a woman who held her emotions in a firm grip and controlled her expression enough that he found it a challenge to read her. She didn’t make spot decisions either. She thought things through, worked out the pros and cons before she chose a course. In the current situation it worked to his advantage. In the long run it was going to be trouble. There would be times when he needed her to follow blindly without asking questions. Norah wasn’t a woman who would be led. That meant he’d have to gain her trust. With her history that wouldn’t be easy.
Trip stepped between her and the peanut gallery. A couple of steely looks were enough to convince them to drop the pursuit, that and the fact that Norah MacArthur wasn’t exactly cover story material, and definitely not famous enough to get a black eye over.
Norah glanced over her shoulder and saw their audience dispersing. She slowed her pace a bit but kept walking in the opposite direction from Lake Michigan, which, it being the tail end of October, was a good thing. It might be Indian summer, but the temperature hadn’t climbed much over sixty, and the wind coming off the water would be at least fifteen degrees colder than that. Trip wasn’t exactly a cold weather kind of guy. He liked it hot . . . His eyes slid sideways. He jerked them forward again. Norah MacArthur might be hot under the right circumstances, but the rest of her screamed Happily Ever After. Trip didn’t do Happily Ever After. Hell, he didn’t do all that well with the morning after.
“Either talk or go away and leave me alone.”
“She’s curious,” he said, grinning.
“She’s also impatient.”
“I could always go back inside”—he turned to do just that—“Hollie did press me for an interview—”
“Wait.”
“Worried about your credibility?”
“It’s worse than that. I’m worried about what people—women—will think of me for turning down a man like you.”
“A man like me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be self-deprecating. You know what I mean. If I send you off after the way you kissed me, every woman in the country will question my sanity, not to mention my sexual orientation. Not that my sexual orientation is the point . . .”
They came to the side street between the television station and the parking structure where she’d left her car. Four lanes of sporadic traffic zoomed through the intersection, slowing when the light turned yellow. Norah looked both ways, more by habit than anything else, since the little red hand on the crosswalk sign was holding her hostage at the curb. Then she frowned, her eyes drawn to a car that wasn’t slowing for the yellow light. Then the light turned red and the car kept coming, changing lanes as horns blared and brakes squealed, veering around stopped cars until it was in the right lane, the engine roaring as it sped up. Heading straight for them.
Norah froze, eyes and mouth wide, mind completely empty as the car got bigger and bigger until she couldn’t see anything else, and it began to seep into her brain that she was about to be killed by a complete stranger on a crowded downtown street, for a reason she couldn’t begin to fathom—
Rough hands grabbed her, dragged her back as the car zoomed by, so fast it was a blur, a roar of sound and wind that whipped her skirt up and stole her breath. Or maybe that was because she was up against a stone wall with Trip plastered over her, cradling her head against his shoulder. Unless he’d forgotten to tell her he was born on Krypton, he wasn’t going to be any protection from two tons of metal driven by a homicidal maniac. But he tried anyway, and darn it, why did he have to go and be a hero?
“Oh, my God, are you okay?”
“We’re fine,” Tri
p said, brushing by the concerned woman and the rest of the bystanders who’d rushed over after the black Lexus bumped back down the curb and took off.
Norah needed a minute; Trip gathered her close, overloading her already strained nerves to the point where she let him wrap his arm around her and hurry her off. They hadn’t gone a block before she shoved him away. “What the hell was that?”
“Attempted murder.”
“It wasn’t a very good attempt.”
“It seemed pretty good from where I was standing. Which was in front of you.”
“Um, thank you?”
“And?”
“And I think it’s time you started talking. You can start with your name—your real name.”
“James Aloysius Jones, III,” he said. “Trip for short.”
She looked at the hand he held out. She didn’t take it. “A little late for that, considering. Besides, knowing your name and knowing you are two different things.”
“Then get to know me.”
She blinked, took a second to process that, and still couldn’t make sense of it. “Why?”
“Because I’m a nice guy?”
“Nice guys don’t kiss complete strangers in front of an audience unless they have an ulterior motive. What’s yours?”
“Well . . . I’m writing a book, and I was thinking you could help me get published.”
Norah stopped walking, let her head fall forward. Trip Jones was handsome and charming and sexy, but she’d grown up with a man like that—at least the handsome and charming part—and having a father who was also a con man meant she could smell a snow job a mile away.
“Really,” Trip said, “all I want is a little help, and I’m gone.”
She started walking again, taking a right at the entrance to the parking structure. “Why don’t you give Myra a call? I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”
“So you’re too important to help me get my work out there?”
“Your work? Let me tell you about your work.” She took in his jeans and long-sleeve Henley, meeting his eyes before she could get drawn into admiring the long, muscular lines of the body beneath the clothes. “You look all laid-back and relaxed, but your bearing is military.”
