Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  She surrendered her wrap to the girl working coat check and then followed piano music down the corridor to the event room. The pianist wouldn’t be Max this time, but regardless she hoped he wouldn’t play “New York State of Mind.”

  Located on the sixty-fifth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, the landmark restaurant and nightclub had been the premier venue for posh Manhattan social functions since the 1930s. But it wasn’t the crystal-cut Art Deco chandelier crowning the high ceiling, the revolving dance floor or the spectacular multicolored lighting engineered to produce a rainbow effect that had Becky catching her breath. It was the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a peerless panorama of the Manhattan skyline. A quick look around was all it took for her to spot several landmarks—the distinctive spire of the Met Life building, the Empire State building, the large green patch that was Central Park—and Max.

  Backlit by the setting sun, he stood beside one of several easels bearing a poster-size blowup of their book cover, looking more like a model for GQ magazine than an author, even a bestselling one. His black tuxedo fit his broad shoulders and tall, lean body as though it was painted on, and he’d let his dark gold hair grow to brush the back of his collar.

  The telltale flicker of his brow confirmed she’d caught his eye, too. His gaze met hers and Becky found herself drowning once more in that deep blue soulful sea. There was no looking away, no moving out of his field of vision. Suddenly it was as if they were the only two people in the room, the world, and she realized she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  He shifted his attention back to his conversation companion, a pretty twentysomething redhead in a tulle-skirted black cocktail dress that Becky recognized as a Vera Wang, and her heart dropped to the floor like Universal Studio’s Tower of Terror amusement park ride.

  God, I am such a fool. On second thought, better make that twice a fool.

  Running into Elliot that afternoon had shown her how many times stronger her feelings were for Max. Elliot hadn’t broken her heart so much as bruised her pride. Seeing him from the perspective of more than a year apart, she realized she hadn’t loved him any more than he’d loved her. Sure, she’d been infatuated with him, but never once in the short time she’d spent with him had she felt so much as a flicker of the flaming passion and soul-deep connection she’d known with Max.

  But you could only hold on for so long. She ventured another glance across the room to Max, yet another relationship she needed to release if she wanted to move forward with her life.

  Pat hailed her from halfway across the room. “Becky, there you are.” Wearing a beaded, black, long-sleeved top and skirt, the older woman sallied up beside her and opened her arms for a hug. “I was beginning to wonder if maybe you weren’t coming.”

  Becky returned the greeting, relieved she wouldn’t have to walk in alone after all. Stepping back, she shot her editor a wink. “What? And ignore a direct order from my commander-in-chief?”

  For the first time in their five-year association, Becky saw the older woman blush. “Well, it wasn’t an order, not exactly. More like a strongly worded suggestion.”

  “So said Mussolini.” Becky accepted a glass of champagne from one of the circulating servers. “At any rate, I’m here now. And by the way, I absolutely love the cover. The folks in the art department went all-out again.”

  “Everyone got the word from on high that this project was to be first-class all the way.” Pat hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Max was pleased, as well.”

  “Was he?” One eye on her coauthor, Becky couldn’t resist asking, “Who is the red-haired woman he’s talking to?”

  Pat glanced their way. “That’s Lydia Evans, the in-house publicist assigned to this project. She planned this fabulous event, and she’ll be working closely with you and Max on the post-launch promo.”

  So the redhead wasn’t Max’s date. That was a weight off her mind but hearing Pat speak of her and Max as though they were partners still brought a stab of pain. She didn’t want to be just his writing partner or for that matter, his casual lover for one night or one month. She wanted him for keeps. And yet knowing how he’d sold her out, how could she possibly trust him with her heart?

  “I see. Well, she’s done a great job.”

  Pat swept a satisfied look over the packed room. “We’re counting on tonight to really build the industry buzz. Once the book hits the shelves, there are several publicity spikes planned, including a national book tour.”

  Becky choked on the sip of champagne she’d just taken. “You’re sending me and Max on tour together?”

  As if taking her gratitude for granted, Pat beamed. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but, well, I hate surprises, especially when it means I’m the one who has to hold back the secret. Yes, there’s a month-long tour in the works but don’t thank me. Thank Lydia. She set the whole thing up. Ten major U.S. cities with book signings and cable television and radio spots and well…why don’t I just introduce you and let her go over it all?”

  Becky panicked. Meeting Lydia meant coming face-to-face with Max, and for that she needed to work up her courage. “That’s okay. They’re obviously in the middle of a conversation. I’ll meet her later.”

  Pat took hold of her by the elbow. “Don’t be silly. Any conversation they’re having might as well include you. It’ll save Lydia from having to repeat all the plans to you later.”

  Becky started to protest but Pat was already steering her through the packed room toward Max. For someone who claimed she was allergic to working out, the older woman’s grip was like iron.

  She didn’t let go until she delivered Becky to them. “Sorry to interrupt, kids, but look who I found.”

  Max shifted his gaze from the publicist to Becky. “Who, indeed.”

  Praying her voice would hold steady, she said, “Hi, Max.”

  He nodded. “Becky.”

  Their eyes met, melded. Memories flooded her—the scent of his skin, which always reminded her of the beach, the warmth of his hand shaping her hip as though he were smoothing away her every care in the world, the deep, low groan he gave just before he came.

  Though it had only been a month since she’d seen him last, she found herself marking slight but noticeable changes. He certainly didn’t look like a man gloating over cutting his partner out of a major contract deal. He looked thinner than she remembered. It wasn’t a dramatic difference, but she suspected he’d dropped a good five to seven pounds. For a fleeting moment, she dared hope the weight loss meant he was missing her, but that was crazy. Even if he did miss her, a pretty big if, men didn’t pine the way women did. She, on the other hand, had dropped a dress size, a fact discovered when she’d been trying on evening gowns in the dressing room of Saks earlier that day. That first week back in D.C., she’d barely been able to choke down a frozen entrée.

  Becky held out her hand, alarmed to see it shaking ever so slightly. “Lydia, it’s very nice to meet you. You’ve done a wonderful job with the event. Everything is lovely.” She gestured toward the ice sculptures meant to represent Drake and Angelina, the cloth-covered food stations, the waitstaff butlering champagne and canapés.

  “Thank you, Miss Stone. I am so incredibly thrilled to be working on this project. My mom is a huge fan of yours. She must own every one of your paperback Regencies, even the out-of-print copies.”

  Catching the flicker of amusement in Max’s eyes, the first warmth she’d felt from him since she walked up, Becky bit her lip. “That’s…very flattering.”

  Small talk, mostly centered on the upcoming events, made the circle. A tuxedo-clad server stopped by with a tray of champagne glasses and even though she suspected alcohol was the last thing she needed at the moment, Becky exchanged her half-empty glass for a fresh one.

  Pat laid a light hand on Lydia’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us, there are some people I’d like Lydia to meet.”

  “Of course,” Max said, and even though Becky knew she had no claim on him, never had and never
would, she couldn’t help feeling gratified that he didn’t seem to give the redhead so much as a goodbye glance.

  Left alone with Becky for the moment, Max raked his gaze over her. “Good dress.”

  His frank appreciation had her blushing from scalp to collarbone, but for the sake of her pride, she wouldn’t allow herself to look down or away—not even to follow his eyes, which seemed to be devouring her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze came back to her face. He sent her a long, lingering look. “When you first walked in, it took me a moment to recognize you—and once I did, you took my breath away. You cut your hair.”

  “Just this afternoon.” Self-conscious, she reached back and touched the back, which came just below her nape. “I’m still getting used to it.”

  The stylist had cut it in graduated layers, leaving the front longer to frame her face. Walking back to the hotel after running into Elliot, she’d realized that not only was she over him but she had been for some time. Since she’d met Max, she’d thought of Elliot rarely, if at all. Such a momentous epiphany deserved some sort of celebration, or at least an outward sign to commemorate the change.

  “You look beautiful, but then you always do.” Before she could step away, he touched the side of his hand to her cheek.

  The caress was Becky’s undoing. “Don’t.” She backed up a step, nearly knocking into an older gentleman she recognized as a book reviewer for Publishers Weekly. “Pardon me.” Turning back to Max, she shook her head, tears welling. “Damn you, Max. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.” She turned to go.

  Strong fingers banded her wrist, the warm hold she remembered all too well anchoring her in place. “Becka, don’t. Don’t disappear on me, not again, not before we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  Having him call her by the special name he’d given her was nearly her undoing. She felt the press of tears at the backs of her eyes and a telltale lump lodging in her throat. This wasn’t fair, this wasn’t right. How could he stand there staring at her with wounded eyes as though she were hurting him when he was the one who’d done all the hurting?

  She wrenched away. “I didn’t disappear. I left you a note, remember?”

  He snorted but his expression was pained. “A short note saying I’d sold you out, I couldn’t be trusted and you never wanted to see me again? You call that closure?”

  “Well, you can’t be trusted—can you?”

  “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He took hold of her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers, and this time she didn’t think he’d be letting go so easily.

  Before she could answer, a pale-faced young man stepped forward and introduced himself as a photographer with the New York Times. “I want to get a photo of the two of you for the book section. Can you stand by the cover poster?” Lifting the camera dangling from the strap around his neck, he gestured them over to the blowup on the easel.

  The dreaded publicity photo op had reared its ugly head. It seemed there was no escaping. Could this evening get any harder? Becky had no choice but to take her place at Max’s side and smile for the camera.

  The photographer took several shots, promised them each copies and then faded into the crowd. Max swung around to Becky. “We need to talk, but first I’m getting you the hell out of here.”

  Plate piled high with canapés, Pat pounced on them. “Did I hear you say you were leaving?”

  Max answered for them both. “Yes.”

  “But you’re coming back, right? I mean, you’re just stepping out for a cigarette or…or something.”

  Max shot their editor a bland look belied by the fire in his eyes. “I quit smoking years ago.”

  It was Becky’s turn to speak up. “I’m afraid we’re calling it a night. At least I am.”

  Pat divided her horrified gaze between them. “But you can’t leave. You just got here. You’re the guests of honor!”

  Becky spoke up, “And it’s been a lovely party. Please tell Lydia again how much we appreciate all the trouble she’s gone to. We’ll be in touch.”

  His palm pressed to the small of her back, Max steered Becky through the crowd toward the exit. Several guests stepped into their path to offer congratulations but beyond an obligatory smile and a handshake, Max kept them on course. Out in the hallway, he tipped the attendant to retrieve Becky’s wrap, slipped it around her shoulders and headed for the bank of exit elevators.

  The elevator opened at once, no common occurrence in a building that boasted sixty-seven stories. Max let go of her hand and stepped back. “After you.”

  She hesitated and then stepped inside. Max walked on behind her. The elevator doors closed, cutting them off from the world beyond. Fixing her gaze on the display above their heads, she watched the numbers fall, reminded of that magical night at the Chelsea when they’d stood arm in arm in the hotel elevator, impatient to reach Max’s rooftop suite so they could continue making love.

  Turning to Max, Becky swallowed hard. “You’d better talk fast. We just passed thirty-two.”

  Yanking his bowtie loose, he said, “Sounds like a lucky number to me.” He reached across her to the control panel and hit the emergency button. The elevator jolted to a stop.

  Unable to believe what she’d just seen, Becky whirled on him. “Have you lost your mind? The security guards will think terrorists have taken over the building.”

  He shrugged. “If spending the night in a police lockup is the only way I can get you to listen to me, then I’ll make the sacrifice.”

  She shook her head, suddenly weary of everything that should be easy turning out to be so very hard. “If you’re not crazy, then you must be drunk.”

  His clear-eyed gaze met hers, and she saw he wasn’t intoxicated, just determined. “I’m not drunk. I only had one Scotch, half of which I just left behind. As for the crazy part, you bet I’m crazy—crazy about you.”

  She fisted her hands on her hips, dug in her high heels, and glared up at him. “Were you so crazy about me when you sold me out for the script-writing deal? Don’t bother denying it. I heard you talking on the phone to your agent.”

  Max stared at her for a long moment, and then he tossed back his head and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Swiping the back of his hand across watery eyes, he shook his head. “Didn’t your mother ever warn you that people who eavesdrop never hear any good?”

  Leave it to a man to put you on the defensive when he was the one in the wrong. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. The phone rang right beside my bed and I reached for it. I wasn’t sure you were even in the house until I heard your voice on the line. It was dumb luck that I heard you congratulating your agent on cutting me out of the screenplay deal.”

  “Too bad you didn’t stick around to hear the rest of it.”

  “The rest of what?” A sinking sensation that had nothing to do with the elevator ride hit her full force.

  “The part where I told him that unless the deal was rewritten to include you as coauthor, there was no deal.”

  Becky shook her head, which spun as though she’d downed a whole bottle of champagne instead of a few measly sips. “Is that the truth?”

  Max moved closer. “The whole truth and nothing but.”

  As much as she ached to throw herself against him, to lock lips with him and feel his strong arms wrap around her, she held her ground and kept her distance. The physical chemistry they shared was nothing short of amazing, but this was too important an issue to be swept aside because of surging hormones. She needed more from a partner and more from herself than great sex alone. She also needed mutual trust and understanding and respect—and above all, true love.

  For once in her life, this once, she wasn’t willing to settle.

  She took a small backward step, eyes looking up into his. “How can I be sure you’re not just telling me what you think I want to hear? When I asked who’d called, you lied and told me i
t was a telemarketer.”

  “I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want your feelings to get hurt or for you to start doubting your talent.” Max laid his hands atop her shoulders. “That was wrong of me, I see that now, but what I said about the screenplay stands. I’ll call Harry in the morning and have him send you a copy of the contract so you can read it for yourself. You’ll be getting one anyway. For the deal to go through, two signatures are required—yours and mine.”

  “W-why would you do that?”

  He shook his head, his gaze melting. “Drake really misses Angelina.”

  “He does?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s been living on microwave dinners and self-pity for a solid month now, and it’s getting really old. What about you?”

  “Angelina’s miserable, too. She hasn’t cleaned her revolver in a month and the last time she dropped in, her shoes were looking really scuffed.”

  “That does sound serious. Do you think there’s any chance of those two ever getting back together?”

  “I think there might be if…”

  “If?” His eyes pierced hers.

  “If Angelina thought Drake really loved her, I think she’d come around pretty quickly.”

  “He does love her, Becka. He loves her with his whole heart. In fact, she’s the only woman in the world for him.” Smile gentle, Max lifted her chin with the edge of his hand. “I’ve come to a similar conclusion myself.”

  “You have?” She felt a tear splash her cheek, a happy one this time, and didn’t bother to wipe it away.

  “Uh-huh.” He caught the tear on the pad of his thumb. “Both my writing and my life work a lot better with a partner—as long as she’s you.”

  Just a month ago that declaration would have been more than enough—she would have made it be enough—but a lot had changed in the past four weeks and most of the changes had happened inside her. She felt as though she’d climbed to the top of the mountain, faced down every demon she’d ever had and then climbed down again, stronger and more clear-eyed than she ever would have believed she could be. She didn’t want to be Max’s casual lover or his writing partner or some contemporary combination of the two. She wanted to be his partner in every way—his lover, his colleague, his best friend and, yes, his wife.