Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  Hands on his hips, Drake broke into a broad grin. “In that case, Angie, I’ll lead the way.”

  * * *

  “Is your dog friendly?” Rose, or rather Rebecca, bent down and stuck out her gloved hand for the golden to sniff. “He seems friendly now that I’m inside.”

  Blind in one eye, half-deaf and arthritic to boot, Scout was no real threat to anyone. In his present mood, Max felt far more likely to bite than his dog.

  He slammed the front door closed and wheeled around to face her. “I don’t know what your game is Rose, Rebecca, whatever the hell you’re calling yourself today, but you have one hell of a nerve.”

  Cheeks pink and eyes glittering, she withdrew her hand and lifted outraged brown eyes to his face. “I don’t have a game, as you call it. When you didn’t return any of my calls, my five calls, I tracked you down on the Net. All I wanted was the chance to talk to you one-on-one. You probably won’t believe me but until you opened that door, I had no idea who you were.”

  She was right. He didn’t believe her. The amazing set of coincidences that had brought them together in New York twice in the same day hadn’t been coincidences at all. She’d staked him out, set him up and then seduced him, the whole time letting him think it was all his idea. All that astrological bullshit was just another aspect of her act. What remained to be found out was whether or not Pat and Harry had put her up to it. Come to think of it, he had run into her a block from his agent’s office.

  Whether she’d acted solo or as part of a trio of publishing plotters didn’t matter all that much to him, at least not right now. Tomorrow it would probably matter a lot but right now what mattered most—and hit him hardest—was the bloodless way she’d used him. The previous beautiful night had been just one big dirty lie.

  Rather than get into the sordid details, he demanded, “Is that how you deal with unreturned phone messages—you just show up on people’s doorsteps?”

  She pulled off her knitted hat and shook out her brown curls. “Of course not. But in this case, you didn’t really leave me much choice. Think about it. If the other night had been about buttering you up, I would have let my name slip when we got back to your room, wouldn’t I?” Hat in hand, she glared at him as though he were the one in the wrong.

  Max wasn’t sure what to think. He raked a hand through his hair, struggling to make sense of it all. If she was telling him the truth, then life really was stranger than fiction—a lot stranger.

  “Well, now that you are here, I’ll tell you what I told Pat and my agent, as well. I’m a solo act. Always have been and always will be. A solo act—and by the way, I don’t take kindly to stalkers.”

  Or users, he almost added but something in her face, a look in her eyes, held him back. Maybe it was the closet romantic in him but despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still wanted—needed—to believe that something about the previous night had been pure and real and good.

  She unfolded her arms and shoved her hands in her coat pocket instead. “I’m not a stalker or a groupie, either. Until a few hours ago, I’d never even read one of your books.” She paused and bit her bottom lip as though just realizing what she’d let slip. She was right about one thing. She really wasn’t much good at buttering him up. “I’m a writer just like you are. I may not be at bestseller level yet, but I’m getting there.”

  Bingo. She might not realize it, but she’d just made his argument for him. “Great. In that case, you go write your books and I’ll write mine.”

  She hesitated. “Unfortunately that’s not an option for me at the moment.”

  Reading between the lines, he gathered her last book had tanked. He was sorry about that, but it was happening to a lot of authors these days. But her bad break wasn’t his problem. Getting her out of his house was.

  “Look, it’s nothing personal. I just don’t work with partners. I don’t believe in them. It’s not my process. Besides, the books you write are very…different from mine.”

  The latter was his best shot at diplomacy, never his strength. Under the circumstances he wondered why he was bothering with it at all.

  “By different, you mean pornographic?” One dark eyebrow edged upward, framing the skeptical brown eye beneath.

  “I didn’t say that.” He had, but not to her, at least not that he remembered.

  “Actually you did—in your interview with the New Yorker you referred to romance novelists as ‘hacks’ and romance novels as ‘housewife porn.’”

  Talk about a “gotcha” moment. The out-of-context quote had come back to haunt him more times than he cared to consider, generating mailbags of angry letters to his publisher from outraged romance writers and readers who’d also seen fit to bombard his e-mail inbox. What could he say? Elaina had been gone just a few months when his publicist at the time had pushed him to give the interview. He’d been struggling to keep it together, and he was the first to admit his judgment hadn’t been the best. Looking back, it was no big surprise he’d said a great many things he regretted, most of which had wound up in print. Since then he’d made it a rule to steer clear of the media, earning himself the label of recluse.

  “Look, it’s late and I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a long travel day and so far no supper. You can stay the night but first thing in the morning I expect you to get in your car and drive yourself back to wherever it is you came from.”

  He was within his rights to open the door and insist she leave now, but sending a lone woman—and such a small woman, at that—out into unfamiliar territory in the cold and dark on a holiday when most businesses were closed went against the grain. He had seven bedrooms spread across the house’s two wings. It wasn’t going to kill him to let her have one of those rooms for the night. His elderly cleaning lady would be thrilled. Changing the guest sheets when she came later in the week would give her something to do.

  “I just came from New York obviously, but I live in Washington, the city, not the state. I told you last night, remember?”

  Her reference to his previous night’s pickup had his face going warm. “You also told me you were a consultant and your name was Rose.”

  For the first time since she’d barged inside, she looked less than sure of herself. Twisting the hat in her hands, she said, “I was a consultant until a few months ago. And Rose is my mother’s name.” Her expression firmed and she lifted her gaze to his face. “What about you? You said you were a travel writer.”

  He hesitated, suddenly finding himself in the hot seat. How the hell had she managed that? “When I first got out of college I freelanced for Fodor.”

  It occurred to him she still had on her heavy outerwear. He reminded himself she was a guest in his home, albeit an uninvited one. “Here, let me take your coat.”

  Rose—Rebecca hesitated. “Thanks.” She peeled off her gloves and stuffed them into her coat pockets, and he caught her hands shaking. So she was flustered, too. That he wasn’t the only one had him feeling somewhat better.

  He stepped behind her. Sliding the coat off her slender shoulders, he tried ignoring the familiar fragrance of rosemary and mint drifting from her hair, but it was no use. Her scent still turned him on, along with everything else about her.

  Going to hang the coat in the closet, he asked, “I’m assuming you have some luggage, an overnight bag, with you?”

  She paused and then admitted, “My suitcase is in the car trunk.”

  He closed the closet door and turned back to her. “I’ll bring it in after dinner.”

  Startled brown eyes lifted to his. “Dinner?”

  He nodded, tamping down the uncertain, fluttery feeling she brought out in him before it might take hold. “I was just starting to cook.”

  She folded slender arms over her breasts. “But—but we’re in the middle of a conversation…an argument actually.”

  “It’ll keep.” He signaled to Scout lying inside the door and turned to go.

  The dog rose on stiff legs and followed his master th
rough the open archway. Becky couldn’t believe he apparently meant to continue on with his evening as though she’d never interrupted it.

  Trailing after him, she said, “I’m not interested in having dinner until we settle this.”

  He didn’t bother turning around. “In that case, you can keep me company while I eat.”

  As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, making a liar of her yet again.

  Maxwell obviously heard it, too. Turning back to look at her over one broad shoulder, he smiled the sort of smug male smile that made her itch to slap it off his face—the same handsome face she hadn’t been able to get enough of kissing and stroking and gazing just that morning. What a difference less than a day could make.

  He skirted the large living room and headed down a side hallway, his old dog hobbling after him. Becky hurried to keep up, not wanting to lose him in the sprawling, supersize house. She followed him through a maze of rooms into a large timber-framed kitchen. Standing in the doorway, she felt as though she was about to enter a Williams Sonoma catalogue. The cabinetry and appliances and cookware were all top-of-the-line. A bank of tall cherry cabinets hung along one wall above and below a marble-topped counter. Backless stools lined one side of a center cooking island with an electric cooking range and a second prep sink.

  A sunken family room sloped off to the side, three steps down from the kitchen. Shaker-style furniture was arranged around a dressed-stone fireplace flanked by built-in bookshelves. Like most writers, herself included, Maxwell had a ton of books, and, in addition to those on the jam-packed shelving, there were more piles scattered about. A flannel-covered pet bed occupied one corner. The room wasn’t messy by any means, but it did have a cozy, lived-in look. Becky could imagine winter nights sitting snug before the fire toasting marshmallows or sipping wine or, better yet, making love on the comfortable-looking couch.

  Whoa, wait a minute. Max had started out as her sexy stranger and become, through a bizarre twist of fate, her prospective writing partner. If pursuing a romantic relationship with a one-night stand pushed the boundaries of modern-day relationship rules, certainly pursuing one with a one-night-stand-turned-colleague qualified as going over the edge.

  Standing behind the island, he beckoned for her to enter. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.” His voice, though not angry anymore, carried a definite edge.

  She walked up to the backless stools. She still didn’t think he’d believed her when she’d said she’d only just found out who he was. Why he seemed hell-bent on thinking the worst of her, that she’d slept with him because of the book contract, mystified and insulted her. It also really hurt. Strangers or not, they’d shared a beautiful night together, the sexiest, most romantic of her life. Now like snow driven through by one too many cars, the memory was soiled.

  “I was about to open a bottle of wine.” He turned away to open a cupboard door, offering her a bird’s-eye view of his broad shoulders and beautiful back. “Is red okay?” he asked.

  Remembering how she’d kissed and stroked and clung to those shoulders, she swallowed hard, heat hitting her face—and pooling between her thighs. “Sure, whatever you’re having.”

  Turning around, he handed her a full wineglass—and a folded chef’s apron.

  “What’s this for?”

  He looked at her as though she were an idiot. “To protect your clothes while we’re cooking.”

  “We?” She slid the apron back across the counter at him. “I don’t cook.”

  “Everybody cooks.” He slid the garment back at her.

  She shook her head hard. “Not me. I barely microwave.”

  “In that case, consider this your golden opportunity to learn. Make that your dazzling opportunity.”

  If he’d said the latter with anything approaching a smile, Becky would have gladly taken it as a joke and responded in kind. But with his eyes looking out at her frozen hard as ice chips and his sexy mouth drawn into a flat line, she knew he wasn’t teasing. He was mocking her.

  It had her digging in her heels. “I don’t want a cooking lesson. I want a book deal and if the only way to get it is to work with you, then so be it.”

  Over the top of his wineglass, he shot her a frown. “Flattery really isn’t your forte, is it?”

  He was behaving like an arrogant ass, but then again she was standing in his kitchen, which happened to be in his house, which happened to be in the nexus of Nowhereville. Driving in, she hadn’t seen a streetlight or a road sign for the last ten miles. She was damned lucky he was letting her spend the night because she seriously doubted she’d have found her way back to town in the dark.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Acting as though she hadn’t mentioned the book, he set down his glass. “Cooking isn’t all about the end result, you know. It can’t be rushed or at least it shouldn’t be. It’s a process like writing or dancing or…”

  He broke off and turned away, ostensibly to stir the pot, but she was pretty sure she knew what he’d meant to say. Cooking was like making love.

  “We’re having venison stew, by the way, a departure from the traditional New Year’s dinner but the market was closed. It’s going to be a while though. If you’re not interested in helping, then at least have a seat.”

  Following his gaze to the stools, Becky hesitated. The last time they’d sat on stools they’d ended up making love atop a piano and then for hours afterward in his room. She wondered if he was making that connection, too, or if the previous amazing night was so run-of-the-mill for him that the memory was fuzzy already. He’d said he hadn’t had sex in almost two years, but then he’d also said he was a travel writer. That she’d also fudged some facts and, okay, lied about her name suddenly seemed peripheral to the point. Once again she’d put her trust in a man and once again she’d found herself on the receiving end of a nasty surprise.

  He opened the double doors of the brushed-metal refrigerator and brought out a wedge of cheese and an apple. Carving off a bite-size sliver of each, he put the two together. “You may say you’re not hungry but you look like you’re about to fall off that stool—and if my memory serves me, you’ve done enough falling for one week. Here, eat.” Leaning over the counter, he held the snack to her mouth.

  For whatever reason, he was testing her or teasing her or maybe both. Becky hesitated and then opened for him, letting him slide the food between her lips. She couldn’t miss how he stared as she swallowed. Not so very long ago she’d taken him in her mouth, as well as let him sample any number of her body parts in return. After sharing that kind of intimacy, it was stupid to be shy now, but she couldn’t help it. Things had changed. They were strangers still, but they were no longer anonymous—or equal. Max might not know it yet but he held her fragile career, her future, in the palm of his hand.

  He flicked his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “You had a crumb just…just there.”

  He took his hand away, but Becky felt the residual tingle of his touch down to her toes. “Thank you, I think.”

  “You’re welcome, I think.” The heated gaze he sent her told her he knew exactly what his nearness was doing to her. Moreover, he was savoring every uncomfortable minute of it.

  She set her wineglass down with a bang. “I know what you’re up to, and it’s not going to work.”

  He placed the lid on the stewpot. “In that case, care to fill me in? What exactly am I up to?”

  Becky snorted. “You think I can’t resist you, that between the cheese course and the dessert course you’ll send me running to the hills or at least the interstate rather than risk falling into bed with you, but you’re wrong. Last night was a freak occurrence for me. I’m not normally like that.”

  He lifted a brow and looked at her. “Like what?”

  “Like…that. I usually have a lot more self-control.” That was an understatement. For the past year she’d lived like a nun. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t sleep around.” She eyed him, weighing how much more to say. “Hooki
ng up with a stranger, someone I’ve just met, I’ve never done that before.”

  “Are you saying I’m your first one-night stand?”

  “Yes.” Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the cheese he’d left out. Adam Maxwell might be a sexist pig, a prima donna author, and the closest to a nemesis she’d ever come to having, but suddenly it felt really important that he didn’t think she was promiscuous.

  “Believe it or not, you’re mine, too. Now that we’ve settled that much, I’d better pay attention to the main course. If I burn it, we’re going to be eating a lot more cheese.”

  He lifted the lid and peered into the pot. Whether the stew needed checking or whether it served as a convenient excuse to cut off the uncomfortable conversation, Becky couldn’t say. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she barely microwaved.

  He turned back to her. “You strike me as someone who needs a job.”

  Heat stung her cheeks as though she were the one standing over the stove. He must have got his hands on her sell-through numbers for the last book or maybe their mutual editor had told him about canceling her contract. Talking out of school about her to another author didn’t sound like something Pat would do, but having recently done some pretty out-of-character stuff herself, how could she know for certain?

  She was on the verge of demanding what he’d meant by that when he added, “Since you don’t cook, you can set the table. Bowls are in that cabinet over there. Silverware’s in the top drawer to your right, and the dining room’s through that door.”

  Feeling foolish for jumping to conclusions—now which one of them was determined to think the worst?—she slid off the stool and opened the drawer he’d indicated. Neatly stacked cloth napkins, no doubt one-hundred-percent Egyptian cotton, lay folded inside, as well. Thinking of her mismatched plates and the disposable paper napkins in her tiny kitchen at home, she couldn’t help being impressed.