by Kathryn Shay
Still, she’d made a conscious decision to come to New York with Jonathan, and to wait for her full memory to come back before she made further choices about her life, so she tried to show him she was enjoying herself.
And in truth, she was excited about the Cooking Network possibility. As she’d told Brady, for as long as she could remember, even before she’d met Jonathan, she’d dreamed of a cooking show on national TV. And now, he’d made it a possibility. She was grateful, so she chatted through lunch with him like nothing else was between them.
“I’m anxious to see Wicked tonight.”
He smiled and this time it reached his eyes. “I am, too. It’s been out so long but we haven’t seen it.”
His intimate tone, his linking of their lives like this, made her uneasy again, so she was glad to see the food arrive.
Her grilled asparagus salad was wonderful and when she complimented it Jonathan told the waiter who she was. The chef himself came out and said he was a fan of her cookbooks. It did her ego good, and she remembered how she’d savored her success, her fame, people recognizing her.
Maybe too much.
“I think we’ll forgo dessert if that’s okay. I don’t want to be late or spoil our dinner.”
“Of course.”
As they waited for the check, Jonathan asked, “Are you nervous?”
“No. But I remember how much I want this. I’m excited.”
“Now that makes my day.”
They took a cab through the city and when they reached the Madison Avenue offices of the Cooking Network, Jonathan helped her out of the car and, still holding her hand, whispered, “Ready to make all your dreams come true?”
She nodded, but her smile was forced. Because Jonathan didn’t know that those dreams had been altered by her amnesia and what she’d learned about herself in the past six weeks. She still had some of them—like the one she was about to pursue—but basically, she was a different person.
* * *
Brady stared down at Millie and Raoul with a half-smile. They were having a fight, and it didn’t take Freud to figure out where this bend in the story had come from. Hell, was no aspect of his life safe from Clare?
He sketched Millie, the cuddly little mouse with soulful eyes, a scowl on her snout and her paws on her hips. “Don’t badger me.”
“I’m a rat, not a badger,” Raoul responded sourly.
“Clacker is my friend, even if you don’t like him.”
“We don’t need friends. We have each other.”
Arrgh… Brady should just rip up this storyboard. It was going nowhere, and he’d let his personal life distract him from his work.
He was just about to tear the page out of his sketch pad when the doorbell rang. Hmm, who’d visit in the afternoon and not let himself in? Delia or Max would come inside. Maybe Donny, Brady thought hopefully. He was always open to spending time with the kid, and sometimes Dee let him come up alone. They often talked about Millie and Raoul, so maybe Donny could help him think of another tack to take besides one that mirrored Brady’s personal life.
He pulled open the door and was shocked to see Lucinda on the other side. Her pretty, reddish-brown hair was a mass of waves down her back, and she was dressed in white pants and a black-and-white top that showed off her body. “Hi, handsome.”
“Lucy, this is a surprise.”
She arched an auburn brow. “Didn’t you get my messages? I said I might stop by today.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, he felt like a kid in front of the principal. “Things have been hectic. Come on in.”
She stepped into his condo. “I went with Sam last night to visit your mom. She’s doing well.”
“Well enough to kick me out.”
Go home, honey. Work things out there.
I don’t know if there’s anything to work out, Mom.
Well, you can’t hide here forever.
Who says?
Your mother, who loves you.
“Brady?”
“Come into the living room.”
Lucinda sat and patted the cushion next to her on the couch that faced the back of the apartment. “I thought we might spend some time together. I have the afternoon off.”
Lucinda ran a successful boutique in the city specializing in yoga wear. He’d met her there when he was buying a birthday present for his sister Juliana.
He joined her. “What did you have in mind?” He didn’t feel like going out with her, but he was also bummed about Clare being in New York with Harris.
“Now, there’s a question.”
Uh-oh. He hadn’t said that to be flirty. God, the last thing he felt like doing was being intimate with another woman.
“Don’t look so grim. I’m not going to seduce you…yet.”
“Lucy, things just aren’t the same for me now.”
“I know.” Her expression was sympathetic. She was a nice woman. “You’ve been involved in helping Clare, which I think is admirable since she did such a number on you.”
Thank you, Sam, for talking out of school.
“And I know you’re exhausted from helping your mom. I thought an afternoon at the Little Theater for a Fellini film, then dinner at Sibon might be fun.”
When he still hesitated, she gave him a sultry look. “All right, I’ll be honest. I know you’re backing away from this relationship. I can sense it. But I don’t want that. So, for now, I’ll settle for being together, no demands, no worries.”
He was about to decline when he caught sight of a picture of him and Clare on the table. He didn’t want to sit here, wondering about how the Cooking Network interview was going, or whether she was seeing a Broadway show with Harris, or worse, where she was staying tonight. Even though she’d told him she wouldn’t sleep with Jonathan, he was agonizing over the fact that she could change her mind.
“You know what? I think going to the movies is a great idea.” He stood. “Give me time to change.”
She indicated his jeans and casual shirt. “You look fine.” She smiled. “I like you as you are.”
Nice to hear. “I want to dress up a bit. Make yourself at home.”
He left her alone in the living room and headed for the shower. He’d always liked Lucy’s forthrightness and her sense of fun. But he’d forgotten that she made him feel good about who he was. Today, he needed that.
* * *
They sat on leather couches in the huge office of the CEO of the Cooking Network, one befitting Abe Lewis’s stature. Up twenty flights, the space overlooked Madison Avenue through a huge set of windows, was beautifully appointed with teak accents and, if Jonathan guessed correctly, featured a real Monet landscape on the wall.
Lewis was a tall, imposing man with a corporate smile. “It’s good to finally have the chance to meet you, Ms. Boneli.” There was an undercurrent in his tone and Clarissa seemed to catch it, as did Jonathan.
“You, too, Mr. Lewis. I’m sorry about having to cancel our previous meeting. I’m afraid it was a family emergency and I simply couldn’t leave town.”
Family, my ass, Jonathan thought, feeling the familiar anger rise in him. The Langstons were not her family and never would be, if he had his way. Brady Langston wasn’t going to win her back. Jonathan had had a lot of time to think over the past week, and he realized Clarissa was trying to put distance between them. He’d resolved to do whatever he had to in order to keep her. Because of the accident, he had a second chance, and he intended to make the most of it. This appointment was a start.
“In any case,” Lewis said flatly, “let’s get right to the meat of the matter. I’ve viewed the tapes Jonathan sent me and can see, with a few changes, how your show might very well fit into our lineup.”
Looking chic and sophisticated, Clarissa kept her cool but showed the right amount of enthusiasm. “I’m glad to hear that. You won’t be surprised to know it’s always been a dream of mine to be on the Cooking Network.”
Jonathan stared at the tasteful matted
and framed posters on the far wall: Ramona Rich, Claudia Dean. Soon, Clarissa Boneli would be among them.
“Then we’re on the same page.”
“I hope so.”
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I’d like to know what changes you’d be making.”
“Oh, well, of course.” He shot a questioning look at Jonathan. Rarely would anybody pass up a chance to go national, no matter what changes Lewis suggested.
“Our Clarissa is a perfectionist,” Jonathan said smoothly, trying to cover up for her, even though he was shocked himself that she hadn’t immediately consented.
Lewis picked up a folder on his desk and opened it. “My team has some minor things. We’d probably change the name of the show. Something a bit more Italian. Maybe the Italian Princess.”
The line between Clarissa’s brows told Jonathan she didn’t like the title but she said, “I guess a name change wouldn’t be so bad. What else?”
“Listed here is a new set, a bit fancier.”
A genuine smile this time. “I don’t care about the set. As long as it has a stove, a sink and a cooktop.”
Lewis gave her a few other minor suggestions that, thankfully, didn’t mean anything to her.
When the executive leaned back in his chair with a glint in his eye, Jonathan knew what was coming. “The last request is a bit more significant. We’d want a partnership in your cookbooks.”
“In my cookbooks? Why? What do they have to do with the show?”
“When you syndicate, everything’s about the show. This is the big leagues, Clarissa. We couldn’t have you going off on your own with the cookbooks while we’re promoting your name across the country—the world, actually. We’d be creating an image for every aspect of your professional life.”
She crossed her legs and leaned back. “I don’t know if I can agree to this.”
“No offense, Clarissa…may I call you that?”
“Yes, Abe, you can.”
“The books need updating.” He pulled out pictures of the covers. “This format has served you well to get you established, but some changes would increase sales, I think.”
She cocked her head. “I thought they were selling well.”
“Our shows, and their ancillary products, are promoted aggressively. To fit into that market, these need to be a bit more chic.”
“I see. I’d be glad to talk about this further, when my illustrator can be present.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Clarissa.”
“Why?”
“Because one of the things that would have to go are the illustrations.”
* * *
“Shall we order another bottle?” Lucy asked from across the small table at Sibon, a dimly lit, crowded little restaurant on Park Avenue.
Brady knew he shouldn’t have more wine, though they’d taken a cab to the movies and walked to the restaurant from there. But he wasn’t much of a drinker, and they’d already killed a bottle.
“No thanks. I’m done.”
She arched her brows. “Aren’t you having fun?”
“I am. I’m glad you suggested this.”
“I’m good for you, Brady.”
He guessed that was true. He’d forgotten how much, in light of what had happened with Clare. Now, though, she had part of her memory back, and maybe, in New York tonight, she would get the rest.
The thought of her sleeping with Jonathan—or worse, her having slept with him the night of the accident, after she’d been with Brady—made him ill. A sense of despair came out of nowhere. What if she did remember everything and wanted Jonathan again like the last time, and was upset with Brady for their lovemaking? He had to swallow back the painful emotion in his gut.
So he said, “You know what? Let’s have more wine.” He raised his hand to call the waiter. “Bring another bottle, please.” If Clare being away with another man wasn’t enough to drive him to drink, nothing was.
“That’s the Brady I know and love.”
Reaching across the table, he took Lucinda’s hand. “Thanks for asking me to come out, Lucy. I needed this.”
“I’m not giving up on you, Brady.”
Uh-oh. Geez, he wished he didn’t have to be fair. But it was part of his makeup. “Luce, I don’t want to lead you on. As I said earlier, things have changed for me.”
“Yes, I know. But they can change back, given the right circumstances. For us.” She arched a brow. “And for Clare.”
Could Clare be changing back this very moment into the Clarissa who’d dumped him?
When more wine was poured, he lifted his glass and took a swig. Then another. And another. Soon it dulled his despair, which was all he wanted tonight.
* * *
She waited until their early dinner at the revolving restaurant in the Marriott was over, and before they went to the theater, to say to Jonathan, “We need to talk.”
Casually, he leaned back in his chair and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The restaurant had already revolved once, giving them a spectacular view of the city.
“I know what you’re going to ask. No, I wasn’t consulted about the changes Lewis suggested. No, I didn’t know he thought your image could be more chic. And, no, I didn’t arrange to have him cut Langston out of the cookbooks.”
“Did you know that he wanted a hand in the cookbooks?”
Jonathan flushed and averted his gaze, a neon sign that answered her question. “Yes.” Picking up his wineglass, he sipped his merlot.
“Why didn’t you tell me before I went to the meeting? Prepare me? I was totally ambushed in there.”
“Because,” he said in a harsh whisper, anger alight in his eyes, “I didn’t think you’d come to New York to see him if you knew how much control he wanted. The old Clarissa would have, but since you lost your memory, I can’t depend on what you’re going to do.”
“You would have been right. I wouldn’t have come to New York if it meant cutting Brady out of the books. And I resent the fact that you tricked me.”
Frowning, he looked around. “Keep your voice down.”
“I’ll do more man that.” Angry, she threw her napkin on the table, stood and walked away without another word.
She reached the elevator while Jonathan was presumably paying the bill, rode it to the sixteenth floor and found her way to her room. Purposely she opened the connecting door from her side and found his already ajar. She paced until she heard him come into the room and appear in the doorway.
“What the hell were you doing, leaving like that?”
She rounded on him. His face was flushed. Jonathan didn’t get angry very often, but as she’d known before, and witnessed since the accident, anything to do with Brady set him off. “I’m furious with you.”
“I can tell.”
“You had no right to lie to me.”
“No right? You wouldn’t even be considered for the Cooking Network if it wasn’t for me.”
“Oh, and here I thought it was my talent that got me this far.”
He stood ramrod straight, his expression tight. “And my connections.”
“You were very wrong to do this, Jonathan.”
“Damn it.” His voice rose considerably. “Do you have any idea what kind of opportunity this is? How rare an offer you’ve gotten? The old Clarissa would have jumped at the chance no matter what was asked of her.”
Squaring her shoulders, Clare crossed the rug and stood in front of him. “I know she would have.”
“You…” The expression on his face went from anger, to surprise, to something else she couldn’t decipher. This close, she could see him redden again. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I have my memory back.”
His complexion drained of color. Why? “All of it?”
Her shoulders sagged. “No, not all. I still can’t remember the two hours before the accident. But pretty much everything else.”
He swallowed hard. “What do you reme
mber about that night?”
Facing him like this was familiar. Frightening. Suddenly she started to tremble and her head began to hurt. He reached for her, but she stepped back. “Don’t. We’re going to have this out now, no matter how it makes me feel. And I want the truth. If you lie to me, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I won’t lie.”
“Did I come to your house the night of the accident? Around twelve?”
“Yes.”
Clare deflated. “And all these weeks, you didn’t tell me? Why?”
“Because I thought we weren’t supposed to tell you everything outright. That if you were blocking experiences for psychological reasons, then it wasn’t a good idea to reveal what I knew, but that I should let it come to the surface when you were ready.” He scowled. “Hell, Clarissa, why do I have to defend myself here?”
She ignored the question. “What happened that I might block, Jonathan?”
He angled his chin. “Tell me what you remember, first.”
Because she felt weak, she moved to sit on the bed. But damn it, she would see this through. “I came to you to tell you what I’d done.”
“You mean that you slept with Langston.”
So he did know. In some ways that was a huge relief. On the heels of that anger surfaced. All these weeks, he’d known something this important and hadn’t told her.
Then again, so had Brady. The thought diffused some of her resentment
“That’s all I remember.”
“I see.”
She couldn’t read his expression.
“What did you say when I told you?”
“More to the point is what else you said.”
“Really?”
Covering the distance between them, he sat down next to her and took her hand. She hated his touching her, but she was feeling sick, so she allowed it. “You said you felt guilty for betraying me. You said there was no making this up to me.”
“I can believe all that. Did you kick me out? Did I leave upset and get in the accident?”
He hesitated. “I told you I forgave you. I told you I wanted to marry you.”
Clare began to tremble again. Violently. “What? Then why did I leave?”
