“You mean spill my guts and cry and all that cr—…stuff?”
“All right,” she said. “If you don’t want to talk out your troubles, fine, keep it all bottled up, be miserable. But that doesn’t have anything to do with being interviewed. There’s no reason you can’t answer her questions. Unless you’ve got something to hide.”
“Me?” he protested. “I’m an open book.”
“Ha!” She used a long fork to lift one pork chop slightly and peer at the bottom. She must not have been satisfied because she lowered it and turned back to him. “You’re as closed up as a clam. You’ve never talked about what happened when the towers fell.”
“Aunt Bev, what else is there to say that hasn’t been said already?”
She made a snarling sound that made him purse his lips to keep from grinning.
“You’re hopeless,” she muttered. “But I still think you should let her interview you. Just because she asks a question doesn’t mean you have to answer it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I have dinner with her tomorrow evening.”
Bev blinked. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened and made a small O. She looked like a startled kitten. “Dinner?”
Nick tried for nonchalance and thought he might have managed it but for the involuntary twitching of his lips. “She asked me to dinner. I accepted. Now that I have your blessing not to answer her questions, everything should go fine.”
“Oh, you stinker.” She shook her head sadly and turned back to the stove. “Where did your father go wrong with you? I hope she tricks you into spilling your guts.”
Shannon indulged in a chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and an artery-clogging serving of creamy gravy.
Sheesh. No wonder gyms, health clubs and diet plans were so popular.
Still, when in Texas… And at a place called Dixie’s Diner…
She promised herself this would be her one and only chicken-fried steak on this trip.
She had no trouble at all cleaning her plate, then piously declined to order dessert. Oh, what a good girl am I. The walk back to the motel was going to do her good.
It was still daylight when she left the diner. She didn’t feel like cooping herself up in her room for the night. Cooping up meant working, and her head wasn’t in it just then. She couldn’t stop thinking about Nick Carlucci.
She could easily understand his hesitancy at being interviewed. She’d seen such a thing a hundred times in other people, and it was particularly typical of firefighters and other “hero” types. They were, as a rule, on the shy side. Heroic, adorable, but shy.
But Shannon thought she sensed something other than simple shyness in Nick. In fact, she had yet to detect any shyness at all in the man.
Her research proved that he was no novice at being interviewed. His rescue efforts on 9/11 had nearly cost him his life. Local and national TV reporters had followed the story of his surgery and his miraculous recovery. He’d faced dozens of reporters in those days.
Maybe he’d simply had enough. She couldn’t say she blamed him. But that was years ago. She had to make him understand that people wanted to know about him. About how he was, how 9/11 still affected him. If he was doing all right.
Physically, she could tell them, he was doing more than fine. He was looking totally yummy.
Was that why she was still here, even after he’d turned her down for an interview twice? Was she still here because she liked—really liked—the way he looked? Or maybe it was the zing she felt when they touched.
She thought about it as honestly as she could until she found herself in the park. Tribute Park, in fact, in the middle of the town square, in front of the courthouse. It was fairly quiet here; but then, the entire town was on the quiet side, as far as she was concerned.
Flower beds lined both sides of the sidewalks that met in the middle of the park. Velvety yellow and purple pansies, and red and white miniature roses were a feast for the eyes. The freshly mowed grass smelled so sweet it made her close her eyes and inhale deeply in order to savor the scent.
More flowers bloomed at the base of a series of smooth, granite monuments. Shannon was drawn to the stones. The first one she came to held the names of all of the local soldiers killed in war, dating back to the Spanish American War.
As was the way of history, the names were all male. Except for the latest edition. A local woman had died while serving with the Texas National Guard in Iraq nearly a year ago.
Nearby stood a second war memorial, this one smaller, and dedicated to local soldiers killed in “the War Between the States.” This monument, like the country itself during that particular war, had a line drawn down the center of it. Two local boys who’d died fighting for the Union were listed on the left, while those for the Confederacy on the right numbered nearly a dozen.
Across the center sidewalk stood another monument. Shannon crossed to it, wondering who else the town chose to immortalize in granite. As she read the engravings, she thought, What a wonderful idea. This monument honored average citizens who had gone above and beyond in a selfless act to save someone else. A school teacher who’d saved a classroom of students from a tornado in 1901. A grocer who’d lost a leg saving a stranger during a 1923 bank robbery.
Shannon walked along the granite wall, reading of one heroic deed after another. The most recent event was a man who’d donated his organs and, upon his death, had saved the lives of several people and greatly improved the lives of more.
Suddenly she recalled that this was the monument Wade Harrison had erected to honor the organ donor who’d saved his life, as well as other locals who’d made a difference.
Shannon turned and found a wooden bench nearby and took a seat, suddenly wanting to talk to Deedra. At this time of day, her best friend would be at home. Shannon pressed the speed dial button on her cell phone, and a moment later the connection was made.
The two friends wasted no breath on small talk. As was their habit, they jumped right into whatever was on their minds.
“I thought you’d be home by now,” Deedra complained.
“I would be—should be—but this guy is being difficult,” Shannon admitted.
“What? You can’t get a guy to talk to you?”
“Don’t overdo the I’m so shocked tone,” Shannon said.
“Why not? You have to admit, this doesn’t happen often. At least not to you. Who is this guy, and why won’t he talk?”
Shannon told her about Nick Carlucci. “And it’s not that he won’t talk to me, he just says he doesn’t want to do the interview.”
“What else aren’t you telling me?” Deedra demanded.
Damn, Shannon thought. “What gave me away?”
“I don’t know. Just something in your voice when you say his name.”
“Oh, good grief.” Shannon groaned. “I’m a cliché now?”
Deedra laughed. “Only to someone who knows you as well as I do.”
“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing nobody knows me as well as you do.”
“I notice you haven’t answered me. That means this is going to be good.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Shannon, if it wasn’t that big a deal, you would have answered me when I first asked.”
“So much for changing the subject,” Shannon grumbled.
“That’s right. So I ask again. What aren’t you telling me about this guy? The way you say his name, I’d almost think you had a big case of the— Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. You have the hots for this guy? You? Miss I-Never-Fall-for-a-Subject-That-Would-Be-Too-Unprofessional?”
Shannon bit back a laugh at her own expense, to hear her own words thrown back at her. Sort of. “I beg to differ. I never said it would be unprofessional to hook up with an interview subject. I said that I could only do it if I was sure I could keep it separate from the job. As long as I’m freelancing, and as long as both parties agree that sex has nothing to do with the story, and vice versa, then there’s no pro
blem.”
“Yeah, right. When’s the last time that worked out for you?” Deedra asked with laughter in her voice.
“I didn’t say it worked, I just said that was my policy. It could work, couldn’t it?”
“Sure. Is he good to look at?”
“Oh, yeah. Rugged, chiseled, brooding.” Wild horses couldn’t make Shannon admit, even to Deedra, that she got a charge—literally—just touching the man. That admission was for later. If ever.
Her skin tingled just thinking about touching him.
“Be still my heart.” Deedra let out a dramatic sigh. “I say go for it.”
“Of course you do,” Shannon said. And she really was thinking about it. She was a big girl, wasn’t she? She could handle herself. She could have an affair and keep her heart from getting broken. Hearts wouldn’t be involved.
“It’s about time you got the hots for somebody,” Deedra said. “What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?”
Shannon groaned, then let out a long sigh. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to jump his bones.
Nick dreamed. This time, no nightmare, but an actual dream. He woke up well before dawn, sweating. He’d dreamed Shannon Malloy had seduced him. He had resisted admirably before giving in and letting her have her way with him.
How was a man supposed to look a woman in the eye after a dream like that? And wasn’t it interesting that he couldn’t wait to find out?
Let her interview you, Aunt Bev had said.
He considered the ramifications. Agreeing to an interview would allow him to spend time with a woman to whom he was attracted. That, alone, was worth major consideration.
Let her ask her questions. He didn’t have to answer every one of them. He didn’t have to answer any of them, for that matter. All he had to do was stand his ground, ignore that electricity that arced between them whenever they touched—simple enough, just don’t touch her—and pay attention to her questions. Reporters were sneaky. They had a way of getting you to say things you hadn’t intended to say.
At least, that was Nick’s experience. And none of those reporters back in 2001 had had eyes deep enough to drown in.
What the hell. He’d always been a good swimmer.
Wednesday, Shannon had trouble concentrating on her manuscript. She had that First Date with a New Man tingle. She knew it was crazy. Nick Carlucci was an interview subject, not a date. But her nerves didn’t seem to care. Neither did that bane of all females, the What Am I Going to Wear organ that lay in the heart of every woman over the age of two.
This occasion, however, was going to be simple. When in Rome…
She found a little shop on Main Street and bought a tie-dyed T-shirt in blues and reds over a white background. She would do her part for Homecoming Week. The clerk congratulated her on her school spirit.
Shannon knew she’d chosen the right clothes when Carlucci walked out of the school at 5:30 p.m., took one look at her shirt and burst out with a huge grin.
He, of course, had obviously cleaned up, as he’d said he would, and changed into a white dress shirt tucked in at the waist of his jeans. He looked…scrumptious.
Down, girl, she told herself. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford to mess up her plans for her book, it was that she refused to chance harming the project. The book was more than merely important to her, it was vital.
She could do the book, and do a damn good job with it, even if Carlucci refused to be interviewed. She could still include him and write what little she knew, or she could leave him out entirely. The project did not succeed or fail with his inclusion. No one would think the book was not complete.
But, she would. This was her one shot to get this right. And she had to get this right. This book was the only way Shannon knew to honor her father. He’d been there on 9/11, too. Sean Michael Malloy was one of the thirty-seven New Jersey Port Authority police officers who’d answered the call of duty and died that day.
He wouldn’t like that, she knew. He would applaud her honoring the rescue workers, both the living and the dead, but not her searching for some part of him in the overall scheme of things. He’d never considered himself a hero, just a man doing his job.
But her father hadn’t been able to do that, so it was left to Shannon to speak for him in this matter of looking back, honoring and looking forward.
Oh, yes, she had to get this right. She had to get Nick’s cooperation. She squared her shoulders and smiled. He didn’t look particularly happy to see her, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. “Hi. Did you manage to work up an appetite?”
He gave her a half smile and slung his weight onto his good leg. “More or less.”
He approached her cautiously, but still smiling.
“Where would you like to go for dinner?” she asked him.
“Where, where.” With one eye squinted, the other closed, he stared up at the sky and hummed as if deep in thought. “I think… Yes. Carnegie Deli, on Seventh Avenue. Between Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth streets.”
He wanted to play? She would oblige him. She glanced down at her watch and smiled. “Okay, but they might be closed by the time we get there. It’s not the flight, you understand, it’s the drive from here to the airport that will slow us down.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
Oh, she really liked this man, Shannon thought. Part of her didn’t care if he never agreed to an interview—she would still like him.
But that wouldn’t get her book written. She intended to keep her mind on business. Perhaps she could figure out a way to conduct business and pleasure at the same time.
That idea intrigued her.
“What?” Nick asked.
“What, what?” she said.
“You’ve got a ‘cat who swallowed the canary’ look in your eyes.”
Shannon smiled. “Does that make you nervous?”
He took her hand and placed it on the crook of his arm and, after waiting for the sharp tingling to settle, led her down the sidewalk. “Should it?” he asked with a cocky smile.
She arched a brow. “I was just trying to decide how I want this evening to end.”
His smile widened. “What are our options?”
“Our?” Oh, he was smoother than she’d expected. Faster, too.
“Sorry,” he said. But he didn’t look sorry. He looked smug. Appealingly so, if such a thing was possible. “I just assumed we were spending the evening together.”
Shannon listened, but heard not the slightest emphasis on the word evening. So why did she feel as if she had lost control?
Interesting. She hadn’t set out to control the man, merely the situation. Yet, the man was the situation, wasn’t he…?
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Yes. We’re spending the evening together. Now, you know the town better than I do. Where should we go for dinner?”
“That depends on what you want to eat. Would you prefer steak, barbecue, Mexican food or Italian? Or good ol’ down-home cooking?”
“It all sounds good. Any recommendations?”
They stopped next to her car at the end of the sidewalk.
“Well,” he said, “you can’t go back to New York without eating some honest to goodness Texas barbecue.”
“Then Texas barbecue it is.” On a whim, she tossed her keys in the air. “You take the wheel, Nick.”
Chapter Four
The woman was one surprise after another, and Nick was more intrigued by her and interested in her than he would have thought possible.
Don’t forget “turned on by” while we’re at it, pal.
Not likely, he thought. No way he could forget the hot, sharp attraction, even through all the laughter and surprises.
The first surprise had been the tie-dyed T-shirt. She’d gone to some trouble, he’d bet, to come up with that. He doubted she carried one in her suitcase.
The pearls wer
e a surprise, too. Pearls and a T-shirt? But she made it work.
Surprise number three was that she’d tossed him her car keys. He hadn’t expected that. She was a woman who seemed to know what she wanted and how she planned to get there. Letting someone else take charge, even for something so simple as driving them to dinner, didn’t fit with the woman he’d been coming to know.
The next surprise was how well she took the news that the restaurant he was taking her to was a few miles out of town. He had expected at least a token argument. After all, she didn’t know him well.
She’d merely smiled and said, “Okay.”
“Okay?” he’d asked. “What if I turn out to be the neighborhood ax murderer planning to dump your body out of town after I chop you up?”
She’d sputtered with laughter. “Are you?”
“That’s a question you should have asked before we got in the car.”
“That’s okay,” she’d told him with a big smile. “I’ll take my chances.”
He wanted to get suspicious—she was being way too nice and agreeable for a reporter—but then she surprised him again when he pulled up in front of Bigg Bobb’s Bar-B-Que.
At a first brief glance, it appeared to be a seedy, run-down converted gas station. But if you really looked, and judging by Shannon’s wide eyes and wider smile, she must have, you saw that while yes, it was a converted gas station, Bigg Bobb’s was well maintained. Bobb had taken the gas-station theme to heart and turned the two garage bays into a dining room. Inside, the walls were decorated with 1950s-era oil company signs, other memorabilia from the same decade, dozens of green plants, and the best advertisement of all, the ever-present aroma of hickory smoke and barbecue sauce.
The sign over the door read: If You Don’t Like Cajun Music, You Might As Well Go Home. If You Don’t Like BBQ, We Don’t Want To Know You.
Once he and Shannon had placed their orders, over the promised wail of Cajun music, Shannon continued to surprise him by not turning into Barbara Walters right away. She didn’t ask him any questions that weren’t general in nature, about Bigg Bobb’s, the town, the school. She seemed particularly interested in Homecoming.
Finding Nick Page 4
