Mixed Messages
Mixed Messages
Linda Lael Miller
Carly Barnett’s lifelong dream was to be a journalist— tracking down leads, interviewing important people, making a difference.A job offer at Portland’s Oregonian Times seemed like an ideal place to start, until she learned exactly what she’d be doing. Writing an advice column for lonely hearts wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it was a beginning. Mark Holbrook did nothing to disguise his disdain for the new staff reporter—if you could call Carly’s column “reporting.”Still, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. But that didn’t mean he’d take her advice—not even if she held the key to his own lonely heart.“Ms. Miller brilliantly taps into all our deepest fantasies, creating pure reading magic for romance fans in search of the extraordinary.” —Romantic Times
Mixed Messeges
New York Times Bestselling Author
Linda Lael Miller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Carly Barnett’s lifelong dream was to be a journalist—tracking down leads, interviewing important people, making a difference. A job offer at Portland’s Oregonian Times seemed like an ideal place to start, until she learned exactly what she’d be doing. Writing an advice column for lonely hearts wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it was a beginning.
Mark Holbrook did nothing to disguise his disdain for the new staff reporter—if you could call Carly’s column “reporting.” Still, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. But that didn’t mean he’d take her advice—not even if she held the key to his own lonely heart.
For our Wild Irish Rose, with love
Contents
Chapter One (#u1911063e-f3a1-5afd-88e3-b0f6d65eef44)
Chapter Two (#u6ba15b23-2247-5e4a-a818-3abcb82297e3)
Chapter Three (#uf4173418-6997-5a26-9271-521563dbfb73)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
1
He was a legend, and he was sitting right across the aisle from Carly Barnett. She wondered if she should speak to him and immediately began rehearsing possible scenarios in her mind.
First, she’d sort of bend toward him, then she’d lightly touch his arm. Excuse me, she would say, but I’ve been following your career since high school and I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your work. It’s partly because of you that I decided to become a journalist.
Too sappy, she concluded.
She could always look with dismay at the dinner on her fold-down tray and utter, I beg your pardon, but would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?
That idea wasn’t exactly spectacular, either. Carly hoped she’d be more imaginative once she was working at her new job with Portland’s Oregonian Times.
Covertly she studied Mark Holbrook as he wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad with his left hand, while ignoring the food the flight attendant had served earlier. He was tall, and younger than Carly would have expected, considering all his accomplishments—he was probably around thirty-two or thirty-three. He had nice brown hair and could have used a shave. Once he glanced at her, revealing expressive brown eyes, but he didn’t seem to see Carly at all. He was thinking.
Carly was deflated. After all, she’d been in the limelight herself, though in a very different way from Mr. Holbrook, and men usually noticed her.
She cleared her throat, and instantly his choirboy eyes focused on her.
“Hello,” he said with a megawatt smile that made the pit of Carly’s stomach jiggle.
She, who was used to being asked things like what she would do if she could run the world for a day, came up with nothing more impressive than, “Hi. Don’t you like the food?”
His eyes danced as he lifted the hard roll from his tray and took a deliberate bite.
Carly blushed slightly and thought to herself, Why didn’t I just lean across the aisle and cut his meat for him?
He had the temerity to laugh at her expression, and that brought the focus of her blue-green eyes back to his face. He was extending his hand. “Mark Holbrook,” he said cordially.
Carly had been schooled in deportment all her life, and she couldn’t overlook an offered hand. She shook it politely, a little stiffly, and said, “Carly Barnett.”
He was squinting at her. “You look sort of familiar. Are you an actress or something?”
Carly relaxed a bit. If she was going to recoil every time someone did something outrageous, she wouldn’t last long in the newspaper business. She gave him the smile that had stood her in such good stead during the pageant and afterward. “I was Miss United States four years ago.”
“That isn’t it,” Holbrook replied, dismissing the achievement so briskly that Carly was a little injured. “Have you been in a shaving-cream commercial or something?”
“I don’t shave, as a general rule,” Carly replied sweetly.
Holbrook chuckled, and it was a nice sound, masculine and easy. “So,” he said, “you’re a beauty queen.”
Carly’s smile faded, and she tossed her head in annoyance, making her chin-length blond curls bounce. “I’m a reporter,” she corrected him coolly. “Or at least I will be, as of Monday morning.”
He nodded. “On TV, of course.”
Carly heartily resented the inference that any job she might land would have to hinge on her looks. After all, she’d graduated from college with honors back in Kansas, and she’d even written a weekly column for her hometown newspaper. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have qualifications. “No,” she answered. “I’ve been hired by the Oregonian Times.”
Mr. Holbrook’s eyes were still dancing, even though his mouth had settled into a circumspect line. “I see. Well, that’s one of the best newspapers on the West Coast.”
“I know,” Carly informed him. “I understand it’s a rival to your paper.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she regretted letting on that she knew who he was, but it was too late, so she just sat there, trying to look remote.
Holbrook’s grin flashed again. “You’re behind on your homework, Ms. Barnett,” he informed her. “I went to work for the Times two years ago.”
They’d be working together, if only for the same paper. While Carly was absorbing that discovery, the flight attendant came and collected their trays, and then they were separated by the beverage cart. When it rolled on by, Carly saw that Mr. Holbrook had an amber-colored drink in one hand.
She felt slightly superior with her tomato juice, but the sensation lasted only until she remembered that Holbrook had a Pulitzer to his credit, that he’d interviewed presidents and kings and some of the greatest movie stars who’d ever graced the silver screen. Because she held him in such high esteem, she was willing to allow for his arrogance.
He’d forgotten all about her, anyway. Now that his dinner tray was out of the way, he was writing on the yellow legal pad in earnest.
The plane began its descent into Portland soon after, and Carly obediently put her tray into the upright position and fastened her seat belt. She was nervous about flying in general and taking off and landing in particular, and she gripped the armrests so tightly that her knuckles ached. Even though she’d flown a lot, Carly had never gotten used to it, and she doubted that she ever would.
When the plane touched down and then bumped and jostled along the runway, moving at a furious pace, Carly closed her eyes tightly and awaited death.
“It’s going to be okay,” she heard a voice say, and she was startled into opening her eyes again.
Mark Holbrook was watching her with gentle amusement, and he reached across the aisle to grip her hand.
Carly felt foolish, and she forced a shaky smile. But she had to grimace when the engines of the big plane were thrust into reverse and the sound of air rushing past the wings filled the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a staticky voice said over the sound system, “we’d like to welcome you to Portland, Oregon. There’s a light spring rain falling today, and the temperature is in the mid-forties. Thank you for choosing our airline, and we hope you’ll fly with us again soon. Please remain in your seats until we’ve come to a complete stop at the gate…”
Mark was obviously one of those people who never listened to such requests. He released Carly’s hand after giving it a squeeze, and stood to rummage through the overhead compartment for his carry-on luggage.
“Need a lift somewhere?” he asked, smiling down at Carly.
For a moment she almost regretted that her friend Janet would be waiting for her inside the terminal. She shook her head. “Thanks, but someone will be picking me up.”
He produced a business card from the pocket of his rumpled tweed coat and extended it. “Here,” he said with mischief in his eyes. “If you need any help learning the ropes, just call my extension.”
She beamed at him and replied in the same teasing tone of voice, “I think I’ll be able to master my job on my own, Mr. Holbrook.”
He chuckled and moved out of the plane with the rest of the mob, glancing back at Carly once to give her a brazen wink and another knee-dissolving grin.
Ten minutes later, when the crowd had thinned, Carly walked off the plane carrying her beauty case and purse. Her best friend from college, Janet McClain, was waiting eagerly at the gate, as promised.
“I thought you’d missed your flight,” Janet fussed as she and Carly hugged. Janet was an attractive brunette with dark eyes, and she’d been working in Portland as a buyer for a major department store ever since graduating from college. She’d been the one to suggest that Carly leave home once and for all and make a life for herself on the coast.
“I didn’t want to be in the crush,” Carly answered. “Is my apartment ready?”
Janet shook her head. “The paint’s still wet, but don’t worry about it. You can spend a few days at my place—you need to wait for your furniture to arrive anyway.”
Carly nodded. In the distance she caught a glimpse of the back of Mark Holbrook’s head. She wished she could see if he was walking with anyone, but even at her height of five feet seven inches the effort was fruitless.
“Who are you staring at?” Janet demanded, sensing drama. “Did you meet somebody on the plane?”
“Sort of,” Carly admitted. “I was sitting across the aisle from Mark Holbrook.”
Janet looked suitably impressed. “The journalist? What was he doing in coach?”
Carly laughed. “Slumming, I guess.”
Janet’s cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, shoving her hands into the pockets of her raincoat. “Did you actually talk to him?”
“Oh, yes,” Carly answered. “He condescended to say a few words.”
“Did he ask you out?”
Carly sighed. She wished he had and, at the same time, was glad he hadn’t. But she wasn’t prepared to admit to such confusion—reporters were supposed to be decisive, with clear-cut opinions on everything. “He gave me his card.”
After that, Janet let the subject drop even though, these days, judging by her letters and phone calls, she was fixated on the man-woman relationship. She’d developed a penchant to get married and have a child.
They picked up Carly’s luggage and had a porter carry it to Janet’s car, which was in a far corner of the parking lot. The May sky glowered overhead.
“Well, Monday’s the big day,” Janet remarked when they had put Carly’s bags in the trunk and Janet’s stylish car was jetting sleekly into heavy afternoon traffic. “Are you excited?”
Carly nodded, but she couldn’t help thinking of home. It was later there; her dad would be leaving his filling station for the day and going home. Since his daughter wasn’t there to look after him, he’d probably buy fast food for supper and drive his cholesterol count sky high.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Janet observed. “Having second thoughts?”
Carly shook her head resolutely. She’d dreamed of working on a big-city newspaper all her life, and she had no real regrets. “I was just thinking of my dad. With me gone, there’s nobody there to take care of him.”
“Good grief, Carly,” Janet immediately retorted, “you make him sound ancient. How old is he—forty-five?”
Carly sighed. “Fifty. And he doesn’t eat right.”
Janet tossed her an impish grin. “With his old-maid daughter out of the way, your dad will probably fall madly in love with some sexy widow or divorcée and have a wild affair. Or maybe he’ll get married again and father a passel of kids.”
Carly grinned and shook her head, but as she looked out at the rain-misted Oregon terrain, her expression turned wistful. Here was her chance to live out her dreams and really be somebody besides a beauty queen.
She hoped she had what it took to succeed in the real world.
Carly’s new apartment was in Janet’s building, and it was a simple one-bedroom unit painted white throughout. Since the walls were still wet, it smelled of chemical fumes.
The carpets, freshly cleaned, were a toasty beige color, and there was a fireplace, fronted with fake white marble, in the living room. Carly looked forward to reading beside a crackling wood fire in her favorite chenille bathrobe.
“What do you think?” Janet asked, spreading her arms as though she’d conjured the whole place, like a modern-day Merlin.
Carly smiled, wishing the paint were dry and her furniture had arrived. It would have been nice to settle in and start getting used to her new home. “It’s great. Thanks for taking the time to find it for me, Janet.”
“It wasn’t any big deal, considering that I live in this building. Come on, we’ll change our clothes, get some supper out and take in a movie.”
“You’re sure you don’t have a date?” Carly asked, following her friend out of the apartment. They had already taken the suitcases to Janet’s place.
“He’ll keep,” Janet answered with a mysterious smile.
Carly thought of Reggie, her erstwhile fiancé, and wondered what he was doing at that very moment. Making rounds at the hospital, probably. Or swimming at the country club. She seriously doubted that he missed her; his career was the real priority in his life. “Are you in love?”
They were all the way to Janet’s door before she answered. “I don’t really know. Tom is good-looking and nice, and he has a good job. Maybe those things are enough—maybe love is just a figment of some poet’s imagination.”
Carly shook her head as she followed her friend into an apartment that was virtually a duplicate of the one they’d just left, except for the carpet. Here, it was forest green. “I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you,” she warned. “There might just be something to this love business.”
“Yeah,” Janet agreed, tossing her purse onto the sofa and shrugging out of her raincoat. “Bruised hearts and insomnia.”
After that, Carly stopped trying to win her friend over to her point of view. She didn’t know the first thing about love herself, except that she’d never been in it, not even with Reggie.
“An advice column?” Carly’s voice echoed in her cramped corner office the following Monday morning. “But I thought I was going to be a reporter….”
Carly’s new boss, Allison Courtney, stood tall and tweedy in the doorway. She was a no-nonsense type, with alert gray eyes, sleek blond hair pulled tightly into a bun and impeccable make-up. “When we hired you, Carly, we thought you were a team player,” she scolded cordially.
“Of course I am, but—”
“A lot of people would kill for a job like this, you know. I mean, think of it. You’re getting paid to tell other people what to do, for heaven’s sake!”
Carly had pictured herself interviewing senators and homeless people, covering trials and stand-offs between the police and the underworld. She knew the advice column was a plum, but it had never occurred to her that she’d be asked to serve in that capacity, and she was frankly disappointed. Calling upon years of training, she assumed a cheerful expression. “Where do I start?”
Allison returned Carly’s smile, pleased. “Someone will bring you this week’s batch of mail. You’ll find all the experts you need listed in the Rolodex. Oh, and between letters you might help out with clerical work and such. Welcome aboard.” With that, she stepped out, closing the office door behind her.
Carly set the box down on her desk with a clunk and sank into her chair. “Clerical work?” she echoed, tossing a glance at the computer system perched at her elbow. “Good grief. Did I come all the way to Oregon just to be a glorified secretary?”
As if in answer, the telephone on her desk buzzed.
“Carly Barnett,” she said into the receiver, after pushing four different buttons in order to get the right line.
“Just seeing if it works,” replied a bright female voice. “I’m Emmeline Rogers, and I’m sort of your secretary.”
Carly felt a little better, until she remembered that she was probably going to spend as much time doing office work as writing. Maybe more. “Hi,” she said shyly.
“Want some coffee or something?”
Carly definitely felt better. “Thanks. That would be great.”
Moments later, Emmeline appeared with coffee. She was small, with plain brown hair, green eyes and a ready smile. “I brought pink sugar, in case you wanted it.”
Carly thanked the woman again and stirred half a packet of sweetener into the hot, strong coffee. “There are supposed to be some letters floating around here somewhere. Do you know where they are?”
Emmeline nodded and then glanced at her watch. Maybe she was one of those people who took an early lunch, Carly thought. “I’ll bring them in.”
“Great,” Carly answered. “Thanks.”
Emmeline slipped out and returned five minutes later with a mailbag the size of Santa’s sack. In fact, Carly was reminded of the courtroom scene in Miracle On 34th Street when the secretary spilled letters all over her desk.
By the time Emmeline had emptied the bag, Carly couldn’t even see over the pile. She would have to unearth her computer and telephone before she could start working.
“I couldn’t think of a way to break it to you gently,” Emmeline said.
Carly took a steadying sip of her coffee and muttered, “Allison said I’d be helping out with clerical work during slack times.”
Emmeline smiled. “Allison thinks she has a sense of humor. The rest of us know better.”
Carly chuckled and shoved the fingers of her left hand through her hair. Until two weeks ago, when she’d made the final decision to break off with Reggie and come to Oregon, she’d worn it long. The new cut, reaching just a couple of inches below her earlobes, had been a statement of sorts; she was starting over fresh.
Emmeline left her with a little shrug and a sympathetic smile. “Buzz me if you need anything.”
Carly was beginning to sort the letters into stacks. “If there’s another avalanche,” she responded, “send in a search party.”
Her telephone and computer had both reappeared by the time a brisk knock sounded at her office door. Mark poked his head around it before she had time to call out a “Come in” or even wonder why Emmeline hadn’t buzzed to announce a visitor.
“Hi,” he said, assessing the mountain of letters with barely concealed amusement. He was probably off to interview the governor or some astronaut.
Carly gave him a dour look. “Hi,” she responded.
He stepped into the tiny office and closed the door. “Your secretary’s on a break,” he said. He was wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and a tan corduroy jacket.
“What I need is a moat stocked with crocodiles,” Carly retorted with a saucy smile. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this man—he produced an odd tangle of reactions that weren’t easy to unravel and define. The impact of his presence was almost overwhelming—he seemed to fill the room, leaving no space for her—and Carly was both intrigued and frightened.
She was at once attracted to him, and defensive about her lack of experience as a journalist.
Mark drew up the only extra chair, turned it around backward and sat astraddle of it, resting his arms across the back. “What are they going to call this column now? ‘Dear Miss Congeniality’?”
“I wasn’t Miss Congeniality,” Carly pointed out, arching her eyebrows and deliberately widening her eyes.
“Little wonder,” he replied philosophically.
Carly leaned forward in her chair and did her best to glower. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Yes. I’d like you to go to dinner with me tonight.”
Carly was putting rubber bands around batches of letters and stacking them on her credenza. A little thrill pirouetted up her spine and then did a triple flip to the pit of her stomach. Even though every instinct she possessed demanded that she refuse, she found herself nodding. “I’d enjoy that.”
“We could take in a movie afterward, if you want.”
Carly looked at the abundance of letters awaiting her attention. “That would be stretching it. Maybe some other time.”
Idly Mark picked up one of the letters and opened it. His handsome brow furrowed as he read. “This one’s from a teenage girl,” he said, extending the missive to Carly. “What are you going to tell her?”
Carly took the page of lined notebook paper and scanned it. The young lady who’d written it was still in high school, and she was being pressured by the boy she dated to “go all the way.” She wanted to know how she could refuse without losing her boyfriend.
“I think she should stand her ground,” Carly said. “If the boy really cares about her, he’ll understand why she wants to wait.”
Mark nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, nobody expects you to reply to every letter,” he mused.
Carly sensed disapproval in his tone, though it was well masked. “What’s wrong with my answer?” she demanded.
“It’s a little simplistic, that’s all.” His guileless brown eyes revealed no recriminations.
Without understanding why, Carly was on the defensive. “I suppose you could come up with something better?”
He sighed. “No, just more extensive. I would tell her to talk to a counselor at school, or a clergyman, or maybe a doctor. Things are complex as hell out there, Carly. Kids have a lot more to worry about than making cheerleader or getting on the football team.”
Carly sat back in her hair and folded her arms. “Could it be, Mr. Holbrook,” she began evenly, “that you think I’m shallow just because I was Miss United States?”
He grinned. “Would I have asked you out to dinner if I thought you were shallow?”
“Probably.”
Mark shrugged and spread his hands. “I’m sure you mean well,” he conceded generously. “You’re just inexperienced, that’s all.”
She took up a packet of envelopes and switched on her computer. The printer beside it hummed efficiently at the flip of another switch. “I won’t ever have any experience,” she responded, “if you hang around my office for the rest of your life, picking my qualifications apart.”
He stood up. “I assume you have a degree in psychology?”
“You know better.”
Mark was at the door now, his hand on the knob. “True. I looked you up in the Reader’s Digest book of Beauty Queens. You majored in—”
“Journalism,” Carly interrupted.
Although his expression was chagrined, his eyes twinkled as he offered her a quick salute. “See you at dinner,” he said, and then he was gone.
Thoroughly unsettled, Carly turned her attention back to the letters she was expected to deal with.
Resolutely she opened an envelope, took out the folded page and began to read.
By lunchtime, Carly’s head was spinning. She was certainly no Pollyanna, but she’d never dreamed there were so many people out there leading lives of quiet desperation.
Slipping on her raincoat and reaching for her purse and umbrella, she left the Times offices and made her way to a cozy little delicatessen on the corner. She ordered chicken salad and a diet cola, then sat down at one of the round metal tables and stared out at the people hurrying past the rain-beaded window.
After a morning spent reading about other people’s problems, she was completely depressed. This was a state of mind that just naturally conjured up thoughts of Reggie.
Carly lifted her soft drink and took a sip. Maybe she’d done the wrong thing, breaking her engagement and leaving Kansas to start a whole new life. After all, Reggie was an honest-to-God doctor. He was already making over six figures a year, and he owned his sprawling brick house outright.
Glumly Carly picked up her plastic fork and took a bite of her salad. Perhaps Janet was right, and love was about bruised hearts and insomnia. Maybe it was some kind of neurotic compulsion.
Hell, maybe it didn’t exist at all.
At the end of her lunch hour, Carly returned to her office to find a note propped against her computer screen. It was written on the back of one of the envelopes, in firm black letters that slanted slightly to the right. This guy needs professional help. Re: dinner—meet me downstairs in the lobby at seven. Mark.
Carly shook her head and smiled as she took the letter out of the envelope. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as she read about the plight of a man who was in love with his Aunt Gertrude. Nothing in journalism school, or in a year’s reign as Miss United States, had prepared her for dealing with things like this.
She set the letter aside and opened another one.
Allison popped in at five minutes before five. “Hello,” she chimed. “How are things going?”
Carly worked up a smile. “Until today,” she replied, “I had real hope for humanity.”
Allison gestured toward the Rolodex on the credenza. “I trust you’re making good use of Madeline’s files. She made some excellent contacts in the professional community while she was here.”
Madeline, of course, was Carly’s predecessor, who had left her job to join her professor husband on a sabbatical overseas. “I haven’t gotten that far,” Carly responded. “I’m still in the sorting process.”
Allison shook a finger at Carly, assuming a stance and manner that made her resemble an elementary school librarian. “Now remember, you have deadlines, just like everyone else at this paper.”
Carly nodded. She was well aware that she was expected to turn in a column before quitting time on Wednesday. “I’ll be ready,” she said, and she was relieved when Allison left it at that and disappeared again.
She was stuffing packets of letters into her briefcase when Janet arrived to collect her.
“So how was it?” Janet asked, pushing a button on the elevator panel. The doors whisked shut.
“Grueling,” Carly answered, patting her briefcase with the palm of one hand. “Talk about experience. I’m expected to deal with everything from the heartbreak of psoriasis to nuclear war.”
Janet smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she teased. “God did.”
Carly rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I think he divided the overflow between Abigail Van Buren, Ann Landers and me.”
In the lobby the doors swished open, and Carly found herself face-to-face with Mark Holbrook. Perhaps because she was unprepared for the encounter, she felt as though the floor had just dissolved beneath her feet.
Janet nudged her hard in the ribs.
“M-Mark, this is Janet McClain,” Carly stammered with all the social grace of a nervous ninth grader. “We went to high school and college together.”
Carly begrudged the grin Mark tossed in Janet’s direction. “Hello,” he said suavely, and Carly thought, just fleetingly, of Cary Grant.
Mark’s warm brown eyes moved to Carly. “Remember—we’re supposed to meet at seven for dinner.”
Carly was still oddly star struck, and she managed nothing more than a nod in response.
“I take back every jaded remark I’ve ever made about love,” Janet whispered as she and Carly walked away. “I’ve just become a believer.”
Carly was shaken, but for some reason she needed to put on a front. “Take it from me, Janet,” she said cynically, “Mark Holbrook may look like a prize, but he’s too arrogant to make a good husband.”
“Umm,” said Janet.
“I mean, it’s not like every dinner date has to be marriage material—”
“Of course not,” Janet readily agreed.
A brisk and misty wind met them as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Times building, and Carly’s cheeks colored in a blush. She averted her eyes. “I know he’s the wrong kind of man for me—with all he’s accomplished, he must be driven, like Reggie, but—”
“But?” Janet prompted.
“When he asked me out for dinner, I meant to say no,” Carly confessed, “but somehow it came out yes.”
2
Carly arrived at the Times offices at five minutes to seven, wearing an attractive blue crepe de chine jumpsuit she’d borrowed from Janet and feeling guilty about all the unread letters awaiting her at home.
She stepped into the large lobby and looked around. She shouldn’t even be there, she thought to herself. When she’d left home, she’d had a plan for her life, and Mark Holbrook, attractive as he might be, wasn’t part of it.
An elevator bell chimed, doors swished open, and Mark appeared, as if conjured by her thoughts. He carried a briefcase in one hand and wore the same clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans, a flannel shirt and a corduroy jacket.
“This almost makes me wish I’d worn a tie,” he said, his warm brown eyes sweeping over her with admiration. Another of his lightning-charged grins flashed. “Then again, I’m glad I didn’t. You look wonderful, Ms. Congeniality.”
Carly let the beauty-pageant vernacular slide by. Although she’d had a lot of experience talking to people, she felt strangely shy around Mark. “Thanks,” she said.
They walked three blocks to Jake’s, an elegantly rustic restaurant-tavern that had been in business since 1892. When they walked in, the bartender called out a good-natured greeting to Mark, who answered with a thumbs-up sign, then proceeded to the reservations desk.
Soon Mark and Carly were seated in a booth on wooden benches, the backs towering over their heads. A waiter promptly brought them menus and greeted Mark by name.
Carly figured he probably brought a variety of women to the restaurant, and was inexplicably annoyed by the thought. She chose a Cajun plate, while Mark ordered a steak.
“Making any progress with the letters?” he asked when they were alone again.
Carly sighed. She’d probably be up until two or three in the morning, wading through them. “Let’s put it this way,” she answered, “I should be home working.”
The wine arrived and Mark tasted the sample the steward poured, then nodded. The claret was poured and the steward walked away, leaving the bottle behind.
Mark lifted his glass and touched it against Carly’s. “To workaholics everywhere,” he said.
Carly took a sip of her wine and set the glass aside. The word “workaholic” had brought Reggie to mind, and she felt as though he were sitting at the table with them, an unwelcome third. “What’s the most important thing in your life?” she asked to distract herself.
The waiter left their salads, then turned and walked away.
“Things don’t mean much to me,” Mark responded, lifting his fork. “It’s people who matter. And the most important person in my life is my son, Nathan.”
Even though she certainly wasn’t expecting anything to develop between herself and Mark, Carly was jarred by the mention of a child. “You’re not married, I hope,” she said, practically holding her breath.
“No, I’m divorced, and Nathan lives in California, with his mother,” he said. There was, for just an instant, a look of pain in his eyes. This was quickly displaced by a mischievous sparkle. “Would it matter to you—if I were married, I mean?”
Carly speared a cherry tomato somewhat vengefully. “Would it matter? Of course it would.”
“A lot of women don’t care.”
“I’m not a lot of women,” Carly responded, her tone resolute.
He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s a shortage of marriageable men out there, I’m told. Aren’t you worried that your biological clock is ticking, and all that?”
“Maybe in ten years I’ll be worried. Right now I’m interested in making some kind of life for myself.”
“Which you couldn’t do in the Midwest?”
“I wanted to do it here,” she said.
Mark smiled. “Exactly what kind of life are you picturing?”
Carly was beginning to feel as though she was being interviewed, but she didn’t mind. She understood how a reporter’s mind worked. “Mainly I want to write for a newspaper—not advice, but articles, like you do. And maybe I’ll buy myself a little house and a dog.”
“Sounds fulfilling,” Mark replied.
There was so little conviction in his voice that Carly peered across the table at him and demanded, “Just what did you mean by that?”
He widened those guileless choirboy eyes of his and sat back on the bench as though he expected the salt shaker to detonate. “I was just thinking—well, it’s a shame that so few women want to have babies anymore.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to have babies,” Carly pointed out. Her voice had risen, and she blushed to see that the people at the nearest table were looking at her. “I love babies,” she clarified in an angry whisper. “I plan to breast-feed and everything!”
The waiter startled Carly by suddenly appearing at her elbow to deliver dinner, and Mark grinned at her reaction.
She spoke in a peevish hiss. “Let’s just get off this topic of conversation, all right?”
“All right,” Mark agreed. “Tell me, what made you start entering beauty pageants?”
It wasn’t the subject Carly would have chosen, but she could live with it. “Not ‘what,’” she replied. “‘Who.’ It was my mother. She started entering me in contests when I was four and, except for a few years when I was in an awkward stage, she kept it up until I was old enough to go to college.”
“And then you won the Miss United States title?”
Carly nodded, smiling slightly as she recalled those exciting days. “You’d have thought Mom was the winner, she was so pleased. She called everybody we knew.”
Mark was cutting his steak. “She must miss you a lot.”
Carly bent her head, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “She died of cancer a couple of weeks after the pageant.”
When Carly lifted a hand back to the table, Mark’s was waiting to enfold it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
His sympathy brought quick, stinging tears to her eyes. “It could have been worse,” Carly managed to say. “Everything happened almost instantaneously. She didn’t suffer much.”
Mark only nodded, his eyes caressing Carly in a way that eased the pain of remembering.
“How old is Nathan?” she asked, and the words came out a little awkwardly.
Mark’s voice was hoarse when he answered. “He’s ten,” he replied, opening his wallet and taking out a photo.
Nathan Holbrook was handsome, like his father, with brown hair and eyes, and he was dressed in a baseball uniform and was holding a bat, ready to swing.
Carly smiled and handed the picture back. “It must be difficult living so far away from him,” she commented.
Mark nodded, and Carly noticed that he averted his eyes for a moment.
“Is something wrong?” she asked softly.
“Nothing I want to trouble you with,” Mark responded, putting away his wallet. “Sure you don’t want to go take in a movie?”
Carly thought of the pile of letters she had yet to read. She gave her head a regretful shake. “Maybe some other time. Right now I’m under a lot of pressure to show Allison and the powers-that-be that I can handle this job.”
They finished their meal, then Mark settled the bill with a credit card. He held her hand as they walked to his car, which was parked in a private lot beneath the newspaper building.
Barely fifteen minutes later, they were in front of Janet’s door. Mark bent his head and gave Carly a kiss that, for all its innocuousness, made her nerve endings vibrate.
“Good night,” he murmured, while Carly was still trying to get her bearings. A moment after that, he disappeared into the elevator.
“Well?” Janet demanded the second Carly let herself into the apartment.
Carly smiled and shook her head. “It was love at first sight,” she responded sweetly. “We’re getting married tonight, flying to Rio tomorrow and starting our family the day after.”
Janet bounded off the couch and followed Carly as she went through the bedroom and stood outside the bathroom door while she exchanged the jumpsuit for an oversize T-shirt. “Details!” she cried. “Give me details!”
Carly came out of the bathroom, carrying the jumpsuit, and hung it back in the closet. “Mark and I are all wrong for each other,” she said.
“How do you figure that?”
Turning away from the closet, Carly shrugged. “The guy sends out mixed messages. He’s very attractive, but he’s bristly, too. And he’s got some very old-fashioned ideas about women.”
Janet looked disappointed for a moment, then brightened. “If you’re not going to see Mark anymore, how about fixing me up with him?”
Carly was surprised at the strong reaction the suggestion produced in her. She marched across Janet’s living room, took her briefcase from the breakfast bar and set it down on the Formica-topped table with a thump. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to see him again,” she said, snapping the catches and pulling out a stack of letters.
After tossing her friend a smug little smile, Janet said good-night and went off to bed. Carly looked with longing at the fold-out sofa, then made herself a cup of tea and set to work.
Although there was no sign of Emmeline when Carly arrived at work the next morning, suppressing almost continuous yawns and hoping the dark circles under her eyes weren’t too pronounced, a memo had been taped to her computer screen.
Staff meeting, the message read. Nine-thirty, conference room.
Carly glanced at her watch, sat down at her desk and began reading letters again. It was almost a relief when the time came to leave her small office for the meeting.
The long conference room table was encircled by people, and they all seemed to be talking at the same time. An enormous pot of coffee chortled on a table in the corner, and a blue haze of cigarette smoke lapped at the walls like an intangible tide. Carly poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the only empty chair in the room, shaking her head when a secretary came by with a box full of assorted pastries.
Through the sea of smoke, she saw Mark sitting directly across from her. He grinned and tilted his head slightly to one side in a way that was vaguely indulgent.
Mixed messages again, Carly thought, responding with a tight little smile.
The managing editor, a slender, white-haired man with the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to his elbows and suspenders holding up his pants, called the meeting to order.
Carly listened intently as he went over the objectives of the newspaper and gave out assignments.
The best one, a piece on crack houses for the Sunday edition, went to Mark, and Carly felt a sting of envy. While he was out in the field, grappling with real life, she would be tucked away in her tiny office, reading letters from the forlorn.
Mark sat back in his chair, not drinking coffee or eating doughnuts or smoking like the others, his eyes fixed on Carly. She was relieved when the meeting finally ended.
“So,” boomed Mr. Clark, the managing editor, just as Carly was pushing back her chair to leave, “how do you like writing the advice column?”
Carly glanced uncomfortably at Mark, who had lingered to open a nearby window. Now’s a nice time to think of that, she reflected to herself, and Mark looked back at her as though she’d spoken aloud.
She remembered Mr. Clark and his affable question. “I haven’t actually written anything yet,” she answered diplomatically. “I’m still wading through the letters.”
Mark was standing beside the table again, his hands resting on the back of a chair. “You’re aware, of course,” he put in, “that Ms. Barnett doesn’t have any real qualifications for that job?”
Carly looked at him in stunned disbelief, and he favored her with a placid grin.
Mr. Clark was watching Carly, but he spoke as though she wasn’t there. “Allison seems to think Ms. Barnett can handle the work,” he said thoughtfully, and there was just enough uncertainty in his voice to worry the newest member of his staff.
Carly ignored Mark completely. “You won’t be sorry for giving me a chance, Mr. Clark,” she said.
The older man nodded distractedly and left the conference room. Carly was right behind him, but a sudden grip on her upper arm stopped her.
“Give me a chance to explain,” Mark said in a low voice.
The man had done his best to get her fired, and after she’d uprooted herself and spent most of her life savings to move to Oregon, too.
“There’s no need for explanations,” she told him, wrenching her arm free of his hand. “You’ve made your opinion of my abilities perfectly clear.”
He started to say something in response, then stopped himself and, with an exasperated look on his face, stepped past Carly and disappeared into his office.
She went back to her office and continued working. By noon she’d read all the letters and selected three to answer in her column. The problems were clear-cut, in Carly’s opinion, and there was no need to contact any of the experts in Madeline’s Rolodex. All a person needed, she thought to herself, was a little common sense.
She was just finishing the initial draft of her first column when there was a light rap at the door and Allison stepped in. She hadn’t been at the staff meeting, and she looked harried.
“Is the column done by any chance?” she asked anxiously. “We could really use some help over in Food and Fashion.”
Carly pushed the print button on the keyboard and within seconds handed Allison the hard copy of her column.
Allison scanned it, making hmm sounds that told Carly exactly nothing, then nodded. “This will do, I guess. I’ll take you to F&F and you can help Anthony for the rest of the day. He’s at his wit’s end.”
Carly was excited. She wouldn’t be accompanying the police on a crack-house raid like Mark, but she might at least get to cover a fashion show or a bake-off. Either one would get her out of the building.
Anthony Cornelius turned out to be a slim, good-looking young man with blond hair and blue eyes. Allison introduced Carly, then disappeared.
“I’ve been perishing to meet you,” Anthony said with a straight face. “I would have said hello at the staff meeting, but the smoke was absolutely blinding me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
Carly smiled. “I know what you mean,” she said as Anthony gestured toward a chair facing his immaculate desk.
“I’ve got a tape of your pageant, you know. You were splendid.”
“Thank you,” Carly demurred. She was getting a little embarrassed at the reminders of past glories.
Anthony gave a showy sigh. “Well, enough chitchat. I’m just buried in work, and I’m desperate for your help. There’s a cooking contest at the St. Regis Hotel today, while the mall is putting on the biggest fashion show ever. Needless to say, I can’t be in two places at once.”
Carly hid her delight by crossing her legs and smoothing her light woolen skirt. “What would you like me to do?”
“You may have your choice,” Anthony answered, frowning as he flipped through a notebook on his desk. “Fashion or food.”
Carly had already thought the choice through. “I’ll take the cooking contest,” she said.
“Fabulous,” Anthony responded without looking up from his notes. “St. Regis Hotel, two-fifteen. I’ve already sent a photographer over. I’ll see you back here afterward.”
Eagerly Carly rose from her chair and headed for the door. “Anthony?”
He raised his eyes inquiringly.
“Thanks,” Carly said, and then she hurried out.
After collecting her purse, notebook and coat, Carly set off for the St. Regis Hotel, which turned out to be within walking distance of the newspaper office. She spent several happy hours interviewing amateur chefs and tasting their special dishes, and she even managed to get them to divulge a few secret recipes.
Returning to her office late that afternoon, having forgotten lunch entirely, Carly absorbed the fact that a new batch of letters had been delivered and sat down at her computer to write up the piece on the cooking contest.
Anthony turned out to be a taskmaster, despite his gentle ways, and Carly willing did three rewrites before he was satisfied. She was about to switch off her computer and go home for the day, taking a briefcase full of letters with her, when a message appeared unbidden on the screen.
“Hello, Carly,” it read.
Frowning, Carly pushed her big reading glasses up the bridge of her nose and typed the response without thinking. “Hello.”
“How about having dinner with me again tonight? I’ll cook.”
It was Mark. She wondered whether the message was appearing on every computer screen in the office, or just hers. In the end it didn’t matter, since it was late and most everyone else had already gone home. “No, thanks,” she typed resolutely. “I never dine with traitors.”
“I’ll explain if you’ll just give me the chance.”
“How are you doing this?”
“Trade secret. Do we have a date or not?”
“No.”
“Will begging help?”
Carly shut off her computer, filled her briefcase with letters and left the office. She walked to the department store where Janet was employed and found that her friend was still working.
After consulting a schedule, Carly caught a bus back to the apartment building and was overjoyed when the manager, Mrs. Pickering, greeted her with the news that her car and furniture had been delivered.
“I made sure they set up the bed for you,” the plump, middle-aged woman said as Carly turned the key in the lock.
The living room was filled with boxes, but the familiar couch and chair were there, as was the small television set. The dining table was in its place next to the kitchenette.
Carly set her briefcase and purse down on the small desk in the living room, then lifted the receiver on her telephone. She heard a dial tone and smiled. Her service was connected.
Feeling unaccountably domestic, Carly thanked Mrs. Pickering for her trouble and set out immediately for the parking lot. Her blue Mustang, one of the prizes she’d won as Miss United States, was in its proper slot.
Taking the keys from her purse, Carly unlocked the car, got behind the wheel and started the engine. She drove to the nearest all-night supermarket and bought a cartful of food and cleaning supplies, then came home and made herself a light supper of soup and salad in her own kitchen.
She dialed Janet’s number and left a message on her friend’s answering machine, then called her father, knowing he’d be up watching the news.
Don Barnett picked up the telephone on the second ring and gave his customary gruff hello.
“Hi, Dad. It’s Carly.”
She heard pleasure in his voice. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. “All settled in?”
Carly sat down in her desk chair and told her father all about her apartment and her new job.
He listened with genuine interest, and then announced that Reggie was engaged to a nurse from Topeka.
“It didn’t take him long, did it?” Carly asked. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—maybe that Reggie would at least have the decency to pine for a month or two.
Her father chuckled. “Having a few second thoughts, are you?”
“No,” Carly said honestly. “I just didn’t think I was quite so forgettable, that’s all.” They talked a little longer, then ended the call with promises to stay in touch.
Carly was feeling homesick when a knock sounded at her door. She had never been very close to her mother, despite the inordinate amount of time they’d spent together, but her dad was a kindred spirit.
She put one eye to the peephole and sighed when she saw Mark standing in the hallway.
She opened the door to the length of the chain and looked out at him uncharitably. “Aren’t you supposed to be participating in a crack-house raid or something?”
He flashed one of his lethal grins. “That’s tomorrow night. May I come in?”
The living room was still filled with unopened boxes, and Carly was wearing her pink bathrobe. Her hair was probably a mess, too. And this man had tried to get her fired just that morning.
Despite all these things, Carly unfastened the chain and opened the door.
Mark was wearing jeans and a navy-blue football jersey with the number “39” printed on it in white, and he carried a bouquet of pink daisies.
Carly eyed them with a certain disdain, even though she secretly loved daisies. “If you think a few flowers are going to make up for the way you sandbagged me this morning—”
Mark sighed. “I was trying to get Clark to move you to another assignment.”
“I’ll be lucky if you didn’t get me booted out instead,” Carly replied. Grudgingly she took the daisies, carried them to the kitchenette and filled a glass with water.
When she turned around, she collided with Mark, and, for several excruciatingly sweet moments, her body seemed to be fused to his. She was possessed by a frightening and completely unexpected urge to bare herself to him, to feel his flesh against hers.
She shook her head as if to awaken herself from a dream and started to step around him.
He pinned her against the counter, using just his hips, and Carly felt heat rise from her stomach to her face as he took the daisies and set them aside. His voice was a low, rhythmic rumble.
“I’m not through apologizing,” he said, and then he bent his head and touched Carly’s lips tentatively with his own.
She gave a little whimper, because she wanted so much to spurn him and could not, and the kiss deepened. He shaped her mouth with his, and explored its depths with his tongue.
Even with Reggie, the man she’d planned to marry, Carly had been able to withstand temptation easily. With Mark, things were startlingly different. He had overridden her resistance, stirring a sudden and brutal need within her with a simple kiss.
Carly found herself melting against her kitchen counter like a candle set close to a fire. She had a dizzy, disoriented feeling, as though she’d just stepped off some wild ride at a carnival.
With a little chuckle, Mark withdrew from her mouth only to nibble lightly at the length of her neck. He cupped her breast with his hand, and beneath the terry cloth her nipple pulsed to attention.
She moaned helplessly, and Mark lifted her onto the counter. Then he uncovered the breast he had aroused and began to suck gently on its peak.
Carly drew in a swift breath. She knew she should push him away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that. What he was doing felt entirely too good.
He traced her collarbone with kisses and then bared her other breast and took its pink tip boldly into his mouth.
Carly gave a strangled groan and let her head fall back against the cupboard door. With one of her hands, she clutched Mark’s shoulder, and with the other she pressed the back of his head, holding him close to her.
She clasped his waist between her knees, as though to keep from flying away, and when she felt his hand move down over her belly, she could only tremble. When he found her secret, and began to caress it with his fingers, she started and cried out softly.
“Shh,” he said against her moist, well-suckled nipple. “It’s all right.”
Carly, who had never given herself to a man before, sought his lips with her own, desperate for his kiss. He mastered her mouth thoroughly, then went back to her breasts. He continued his gentle plundering, and Carly’s heels rose to the counter’s edge in a motion of abject surrender.
Mark kissed his way down her belly and wrung a raw gasp from her throat when he took her boldly into his mouth. He gripped Carly’s ankles firmly, parting her legs until she was totally vulnerable to him.
A fine sheen of perspiration covered her body as he attended her, and her hair clung, moist, to her forehead and her cheeks. She writhed and twisted, murmuring nonsense words, while Mark drove her toward sweet damnation.
She cried out at the fiery tumult shuddering through her body, surrendered shamelessly to the searing pleasure. And when it was over, tears of confusion and relief trickled down her cheek.
Gently Mark released her ankles so that she could lower her legs. He closed her robe and kissed her damp brow softly.
“Oh, God,” Carly whispered, as shame flowed into her, like water rushing into a tide pool.
Mark traced her lips with the tip of one finger, and considered her with kind eyes. “Chemistry,” he said, and then, to Carly’s utter amazement, he turned away.
She scooted off the counter and stood for several moments, waiting for her knees to stabilize. Mark had already reached the door, and his hand was resting on the knob.
Carly cinched the belt of her bathrobe tightly. She couldn’t believe it. This man had aroused her thoroughly, had subjected her to a scorching climax—and now he was leaving. “Where are you going?”
The insolent brown eyes caressed her as he opened the door. “Home.”
“But…”
There was a touch of sadness to his smile. “Yes,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “I want you. But we’re going to wait.”
Carly was finally able to move. She stumbled a few steps toward him, filled with resentment because he’d made her need him so desperately and then dismissed her. “You would have been the first,” she taunted him, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes slid over her slender body, which was still quivering with outrage and violent appeasement. “I’ll be the first,” he assured her, “and the last.”
And then he was gone.
3
Carly didn’t see Mark the next day, but another mysterious message appeared on her computer screen late in the afternoon, just as she was getting ready to go home.
“Nice coverage on the food contest,” the glowing green letters said, “but telling ‘Frazzled in Farleyville’ to get a divorce was truly cavalier. Who the hell do you think you are, Joyce Brothers?”
Carly sighed. All her life, her view of the world had been pretty clear-cut: this was right, that was wrong; this was good, that was bad. Now she was faced with a man who could melt her bones one moment, and attack her most basic principles the next.
She poised her fingers over the keyboard for a few minutes, sinking her teeth into her lower lip, then typed, “If you don’t like my column, Holbrook, do us both a favor and stop reading it.”
Mark’s response took only seconds to appear. “That’s what I like,” it jibed. “A rookie who knows how to heed the voice of experience.”
“Thank you, Ann Landers,” Carly typed succinctly. “Good night, and goodbye.” With that, she shut down the system, gathered up her things and left the room.
Somewhat to her disappointment, there were no computer messages from Mark the next day or the one after that, and he didn’t appear in any of the staff meetings, either.
Carly told herself she was relieved, but she was also concerned. She worried, at odd moments, about Mark’s undercover assignment with the police. A thousand times a day she wondered how soon word would leak out if something went wrong…
A full week had passed when she encountered Mark again, at a media party in the ballroom of a downtown hotel. He was wearing jeans, a lightweight blue sweater and a tweed sports jacket while all the other men sported suits, and he still managed to look quietly terrific.
His eyes flipped over Carly’s slinky pink sheath, and instantly her nipples hardened and pressed against the glimmering cloth. “Hi,” he said, and the word was somehow intimate, bringing back Technicolor memories of the incident on her kitchen counter.
Carly’s cheeks went as pink as her dress, and she folded her arms in self-defense. “Well,” she said acidly, “I see you survived the crack raid.”
Mark took hold of her elbow and gently but firmly escorted her through the crush of television, radio and newspaper people toward the lobby. “We need to talk.”
Carly glared at him. “I think it would be best if we just communicated through our computers. Better yet,” she added, starting to move around him, “let’s not communicate at all.”
He captured her arm again, pulled her back and pressed her to sit on a bench upholstered in royal-blue velvet. He took a seat beside her and looked into her eyes, frowning. “What did I do now?”
She straightened her spine, drew a deep breath and let it out again. “That has to be the most obtuse question I’ve ever heard,” she said stiffly.
“I doubt it,” Mark retorted, before she could go on to say that she didn’t appreciate his criticism and his nonchalant efforts to get her fired. “Considering that you’ve probably been asked things like, ‘How do you walk without your tiara falling off?’ and ‘What contribution do you think tap dancing will make to world peace?”’
Carly leaned close to him and spoke through her teeth. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Hotshot Pulitzer Prize Winner, if you would stop making comments about my title!”
His wonderful, damnable brown eyes twinkled. “Okay,” he conceded, “just answer one question, and I will.”
Carly was cautious. “Fair enough,” she allowed huffily. “Ask away.”
“What was your talent?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the pageant. When the other semifinalists sang and danced and played stirring classical pieces on the piano, what did you do?”
Carly swallowed and averted her eyes.
Mark prompted her with a little nudge.
“I twirled a baton,” she blurted out in a furious whisper. “Are you satisfied?”
“No,” Mark replied, and even though he wasn’t smiling, his amusement showed in every line of his body. “But I’ll let the subject drop for the time being.”
“Good,” Carly growled, and sprang off the bench.
Mark pulled her back down again. “Lighten up, Barnett,” he said. “If you can’t take a little ribbing, you won’t last five minutes in this business.”
Carly’s face was flushed, and she yearned to get out into the cool, crisp May evening. “So now I’m thin-skinned, as well as incompetent.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I never said you were incompetent, but you’re damned cranky. I can’t figure out which you need more—a good spanking or a very thorough session on a mattress.”
That was it. Carly had reached the limit of her patience. She jumped up off the bench again and stormed back into the party.
She would have preferred to walk out of that hotel, get into her car and drive home. But she knew contacts were vital, and she wanted to meet as many people as she could.
She stayed an hour and a half, avoiding Mark, passing out and collecting business cards. Then she put on her shiny white taffeta blazer and headed for the parking lot.
She had unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel before she realized that Mark was sitting in the passenger seat. Surprise and fury made her gasp. “How did you get in here? This car was locked!”
He grinned at her. “I learned the trick from Iggy DeFazzio, a kid I interviewed when I was doing a piece on street gangs.”
Carly knew it wouldn’t do any good to demand that he leave her car, and she wasn’t strong enough to throw him out bodily. She started the ignition and glared at him. “Where to, Mr. Holbrook?”
“My place,” he said with absolute confidence that he’d get his way.
“Has anybody ever told you that you are totally obnoxious?”
“No, but my teenage niece once said I was totally awesome, and I think she meant it as a compliment.”
Carly pulled out into the light evening traffic. “You must have paid her.”
Mark spoke pleasantly. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t grovel and give directions at the same time,” he replied.
Wondering why she was obeying when this man had done nothing but insult her since the moment she’d met him, Carly nonetheless stopped the car and surrendered the wheel to Mark. Soon they were speeding down the freeway.
“So,” he began again brightly, “when you were twirling your baton, were the ends on fire?”
Carly reached out and slugged him in the arm, but a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Is this your idea of groveling?”
He laughed. “Meet anybody interesting at the party?”
“Two or three TV newscasters and a talk-show host,” she answered, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m having dinner with Jim Benson from Channel 37 Friday night.”
Mark’s jaw tightened for just a moment, and he tossed a sidelong glance in her direction. “He’s a lech,” he said.
“If he gets out of line,” she replied immediately, “I’ll just hit him with my baton.”
Mark cleared his throat and steered the car onto an exit. “Carly—”
“What?”
“We got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”
Carly folded her arms. “Whose fault was that?”
He let out a ragged sigh as they came to a stop at a red light. “For purposes of expediency,” he muttered, “I’ll admit that it was mine. Partly.”
“That’s generous of you.”
The light changed, and they drove up a steep hill. “Damn it,” Mark bit out, “will you just let me finish?”
Carly spread her hands in a motion of generosity. “Go ahead.”
He turned onto a long, curving driveway, the headlights sweeping over evergreen trees, giant ferns and assorted brush. “I have a lot of respect for you as a person.”
“I haven’t heard that one since the night of the junior prom when Johnny Shupe wanted to put his hand down the front of my dress.”
The car jerked to a stop beside a compact pickup truck, and Mark shut off the ignition and the headlights. “I get it,” he snapped. “You’re mad because I only took you part of the way!”
Carly wanted to slap him for bringing up the kitchen-counter incident, even indirectly, but she restrained herself. “Why, you arrogant bastard!” she breathed instead, clenching her fists. “How dare you talk to me like that?”
He got out of the car, slammed the door and came around to her side. Before she thought to push down the lock, he was bending over her, his lips only a whisper away from hers. “This is how,” he replied, and then he kissed her.
At first, Carly resisted, stiffening her body and pressing her lips together in a tight line. But soon Mark’s persuasive tongue conquered her, and she whimpered with unwilling pleasure, sagging limply against the back of the car seat.
Presently he took her arm and ushered her out of the car and into the house. By the faint glow of the porch light, Carly could see that it was an old-fashioned brick cottage, with wooden shutters on the windows and a fanlight over the door.
In the small entryway he kissed her again, and the sensations the contact stirred in her pushed all thoughts of their differences to the back of her mind.
“It looks like there’s one thing we’re going to have to get out of our way before we can make sense of what’s happening to us, Carly,” he said when the kiss was over. He smoothed away her blazer with gentle hands.
Carly, who had been an avowed ice maiden in high school and college, was suddenly as pliant and willing as a sixteenth-century tavern wench. Her body seemed to be waging some kind of heated rebellion against the resolutions of her mind.
She knew she should get into her car and go home, but she couldn’t make herself walk away from Mark.
He led her into a pleasantly cluttered living room where lamps were burning and seated her on the couch. Carly watched as he lit a fire on the hearth, then shifted her gaze to a desk facing a bank of windows. A computer screen glowed companionably among stacks of books and papers.
“I do a lot of my work at home,” Mark explained, dusting his hands together as he rose from the hearth. “You can’t see it now, of course, but there’s a great view of the river from those windows.”
Carly was still trying to shore up her sagging defenses, but the attempt was largely hopeless. Mark’s kisses had left her feeling as though she’d been drugged.
He left the room briefly and returned with two bottles of wine cooler and a couple of glasses. Taking a seat beside Carly on the cushiony sofa, which was upholstered in mauve suede, he opened the bottles and poured.
Carly figured she had about as much chance coming out of this with her virginity intact as she would have escaping a sheik’s harem. The crazy thing was, she didn’t want to leave.
Mark handed her a glass, and she took a cautious sip.
“I’m really very bright, you know,” she said, feeling defensive. “I got terrific grades in college.”
He smiled, set his goblet on the coffee table and swung her legs up onto his lap. “Umm-hmm,” he said, slipping off her high-heeled shoes one by one and tossing them away.
Some last vestige of pride made Carly stiffen. “You don’t believe me!”
Mark ran a soothing hand over her right foot and ankle, and against her will she relaxed again. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t,” he answered quietly. “There were over a hundred applicants for your job at the Times, and all of them were qualified.”
Carly was pleased. “Really?”
Mark took advantage of the sexy slit on the side of her pink dress to caress the back of her knee. “Really,” he said.
She put her glass aside, feeling as though she’d already consumed a reservoir full of alcohol. On the hearth the fire crackled and snapped. “I really should go straight home,” she said.
“I know,” Mark agreed.
“I mean, it’s possible that I don’t even like you.”
“I know that, too,” he responded with a grin.
“But we’re going to make love, aren’t we?”
Mark nodded. “Yes,” he said, and then he stood and drew Carly off the couch and into a gentle embrace. He kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose. “If you really want to go home,” he said, “it’s OK.”
Carly let her forehead rest against his chest and slid her arms around his waist. “God help me,” she whispered, “I want to stay.”
He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head back so he could look into her eyes. He moved his lips as though he meant to speak, but in the end he kissed her instead.
Again, she had the sensation of being swept into some kind of vortex, where none of the usual rules applied. When Mark lifted her into his arms, she laid her head against his shoulder.
He carried her up a set of stairs, along a hallway and into a room so large that Carly was sure it must run the entire length of the house. She noticed a fireplace, the shadowy shapes of chairs and, finally, the huge bed.
Made of dark wood, it stood on a U-shaped ledge, dominating the room. It was a place where a knight might have deflowered his lady, and Carly was filled with a sense of rightness, as well as desire.
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Linda Lael Miller
Carly Barnett’s lifelong dream was to be a journalist— tracking down leads, interviewing important people, making a difference.A job offer at Portland’s Oregonian Times seemed like an ideal place to start, until she learned exactly what she’d be doing. Writing an advice column for lonely hearts wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it was a beginning. Mark Holbrook did nothing to disguise his disdain for the new staff reporter—if you could call Carly’s column “reporting.”Still, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. But that didn’t mean he’d take her advice—not even if she held the key to his own lonely heart.“Ms. Miller brilliantly taps into all our deepest fantasies, creating pure reading magic for romance fans in search of the extraordinary.” —Romantic Times
Mixed Messeges
New York Times Bestselling Author
Linda Lael Miller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Carly Barnett’s lifelong dream was to be a journalist—tracking down leads, interviewing important people, making a difference. A job offer at Portland’s Oregonian Times seemed like an ideal place to start, until she learned exactly what she’d be doing. Writing an advice column for lonely hearts wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it was a beginning.
Mark Holbrook did nothing to disguise his disdain for the new staff reporter—if you could call Carly’s column “reporting.” Still, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. But that didn’t mean he’d take her advice—not even if she held the key to his own lonely heart.
For our Wild Irish Rose, with love
Contents
Chapter One (#u1911063e-f3a1-5afd-88e3-b0f6d65eef44)
Chapter Two (#u6ba15b23-2247-5e4a-a818-3abcb82297e3)
Chapter Three (#uf4173418-6997-5a26-9271-521563dbfb73)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
1
He was a legend, and he was sitting right across the aisle from Carly Barnett. She wondered if she should speak to him and immediately began rehearsing possible scenarios in her mind.
First, she’d sort of bend toward him, then she’d lightly touch his arm. Excuse me, she would say, but I’ve been following your career since high school and I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your work. It’s partly because of you that I decided to become a journalist.
Too sappy, she concluded.
She could always look with dismay at the dinner on her fold-down tray and utter, I beg your pardon, but would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?
That idea wasn’t exactly spectacular, either. Carly hoped she’d be more imaginative once she was working at her new job with Portland’s Oregonian Times.
Covertly she studied Mark Holbrook as he wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad with his left hand, while ignoring the food the flight attendant had served earlier. He was tall, and younger than Carly would have expected, considering all his accomplishments—he was probably around thirty-two or thirty-three. He had nice brown hair and could have used a shave. Once he glanced at her, revealing expressive brown eyes, but he didn’t seem to see Carly at all. He was thinking.
Carly was deflated. After all, she’d been in the limelight herself, though in a very different way from Mr. Holbrook, and men usually noticed her.
She cleared her throat, and instantly his choirboy eyes focused on her.
“Hello,” he said with a megawatt smile that made the pit of Carly’s stomach jiggle.
She, who was used to being asked things like what she would do if she could run the world for a day, came up with nothing more impressive than, “Hi. Don’t you like the food?”
His eyes danced as he lifted the hard roll from his tray and took a deliberate bite.
Carly blushed slightly and thought to herself, Why didn’t I just lean across the aisle and cut his meat for him?
He had the temerity to laugh at her expression, and that brought the focus of her blue-green eyes back to his face. He was extending his hand. “Mark Holbrook,” he said cordially.
Carly had been schooled in deportment all her life, and she couldn’t overlook an offered hand. She shook it politely, a little stiffly, and said, “Carly Barnett.”
He was squinting at her. “You look sort of familiar. Are you an actress or something?”
Carly relaxed a bit. If she was going to recoil every time someone did something outrageous, she wouldn’t last long in the newspaper business. She gave him the smile that had stood her in such good stead during the pageant and afterward. “I was Miss United States four years ago.”
“That isn’t it,” Holbrook replied, dismissing the achievement so briskly that Carly was a little injured. “Have you been in a shaving-cream commercial or something?”
“I don’t shave, as a general rule,” Carly replied sweetly.
Holbrook chuckled, and it was a nice sound, masculine and easy. “So,” he said, “you’re a beauty queen.”
Carly’s smile faded, and she tossed her head in annoyance, making her chin-length blond curls bounce. “I’m a reporter,” she corrected him coolly. “Or at least I will be, as of Monday morning.”
He nodded. “On TV, of course.”
Carly heartily resented the inference that any job she might land would have to hinge on her looks. After all, she’d graduated from college with honors back in Kansas, and she’d even written a weekly column for her hometown newspaper. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have qualifications. “No,” she answered. “I’ve been hired by the Oregonian Times.”
Mr. Holbrook’s eyes were still dancing, even though his mouth had settled into a circumspect line. “I see. Well, that’s one of the best newspapers on the West Coast.”
“I know,” Carly informed him. “I understand it’s a rival to your paper.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she regretted letting on that she knew who he was, but it was too late, so she just sat there, trying to look remote.
Holbrook’s grin flashed again. “You’re behind on your homework, Ms. Barnett,” he informed her. “I went to work for the Times two years ago.”
They’d be working together, if only for the same paper. While Carly was absorbing that discovery, the flight attendant came and collected their trays, and then they were separated by the beverage cart. When it rolled on by, Carly saw that Mr. Holbrook had an amber-colored drink in one hand.
She felt slightly superior with her tomato juice, but the sensation lasted only until she remembered that Holbrook had a Pulitzer to his credit, that he’d interviewed presidents and kings and some of the greatest movie stars who’d ever graced the silver screen. Because she held him in such high esteem, she was willing to allow for his arrogance.
He’d forgotten all about her, anyway. Now that his dinner tray was out of the way, he was writing on the yellow legal pad in earnest.
The plane began its descent into Portland soon after, and Carly obediently put her tray into the upright position and fastened her seat belt. She was nervous about flying in general and taking off and landing in particular, and she gripped the armrests so tightly that her knuckles ached. Even though she’d flown a lot, Carly had never gotten used to it, and she doubted that she ever would.
When the plane touched down and then bumped and jostled along the runway, moving at a furious pace, Carly closed her eyes tightly and awaited death.
“It’s going to be okay,” she heard a voice say, and she was startled into opening her eyes again.
Mark Holbrook was watching her with gentle amusement, and he reached across the aisle to grip her hand.
Carly felt foolish, and she forced a shaky smile. But she had to grimace when the engines of the big plane were thrust into reverse and the sound of air rushing past the wings filled the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a staticky voice said over the sound system, “we’d like to welcome you to Portland, Oregon. There’s a light spring rain falling today, and the temperature is in the mid-forties. Thank you for choosing our airline, and we hope you’ll fly with us again soon. Please remain in your seats until we’ve come to a complete stop at the gate…”
Mark was obviously one of those people who never listened to such requests. He released Carly’s hand after giving it a squeeze, and stood to rummage through the overhead compartment for his carry-on luggage.
“Need a lift somewhere?” he asked, smiling down at Carly.
For a moment she almost regretted that her friend Janet would be waiting for her inside the terminal. She shook her head. “Thanks, but someone will be picking me up.”
He produced a business card from the pocket of his rumpled tweed coat and extended it. “Here,” he said with mischief in his eyes. “If you need any help learning the ropes, just call my extension.”
She beamed at him and replied in the same teasing tone of voice, “I think I’ll be able to master my job on my own, Mr. Holbrook.”
He chuckled and moved out of the plane with the rest of the mob, glancing back at Carly once to give her a brazen wink and another knee-dissolving grin.
Ten minutes later, when the crowd had thinned, Carly walked off the plane carrying her beauty case and purse. Her best friend from college, Janet McClain, was waiting eagerly at the gate, as promised.
“I thought you’d missed your flight,” Janet fussed as she and Carly hugged. Janet was an attractive brunette with dark eyes, and she’d been working in Portland as a buyer for a major department store ever since graduating from college. She’d been the one to suggest that Carly leave home once and for all and make a life for herself on the coast.
“I didn’t want to be in the crush,” Carly answered. “Is my apartment ready?”
Janet shook her head. “The paint’s still wet, but don’t worry about it. You can spend a few days at my place—you need to wait for your furniture to arrive anyway.”
Carly nodded. In the distance she caught a glimpse of the back of Mark Holbrook’s head. She wished she could see if he was walking with anyone, but even at her height of five feet seven inches the effort was fruitless.
“Who are you staring at?” Janet demanded, sensing drama. “Did you meet somebody on the plane?”
“Sort of,” Carly admitted. “I was sitting across the aisle from Mark Holbrook.”
Janet looked suitably impressed. “The journalist? What was he doing in coach?”
Carly laughed. “Slumming, I guess.”
Janet’s cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, shoving her hands into the pockets of her raincoat. “Did you actually talk to him?”
“Oh, yes,” Carly answered. “He condescended to say a few words.”
“Did he ask you out?”
Carly sighed. She wished he had and, at the same time, was glad he hadn’t. But she wasn’t prepared to admit to such confusion—reporters were supposed to be decisive, with clear-cut opinions on everything. “He gave me his card.”
After that, Janet let the subject drop even though, these days, judging by her letters and phone calls, she was fixated on the man-woman relationship. She’d developed a penchant to get married and have a child.
They picked up Carly’s luggage and had a porter carry it to Janet’s car, which was in a far corner of the parking lot. The May sky glowered overhead.
“Well, Monday’s the big day,” Janet remarked when they had put Carly’s bags in the trunk and Janet’s stylish car was jetting sleekly into heavy afternoon traffic. “Are you excited?”
Carly nodded, but she couldn’t help thinking of home. It was later there; her dad would be leaving his filling station for the day and going home. Since his daughter wasn’t there to look after him, he’d probably buy fast food for supper and drive his cholesterol count sky high.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Janet observed. “Having second thoughts?”
Carly shook her head resolutely. She’d dreamed of working on a big-city newspaper all her life, and she had no real regrets. “I was just thinking of my dad. With me gone, there’s nobody there to take care of him.”
“Good grief, Carly,” Janet immediately retorted, “you make him sound ancient. How old is he—forty-five?”
Carly sighed. “Fifty. And he doesn’t eat right.”
Janet tossed her an impish grin. “With his old-maid daughter out of the way, your dad will probably fall madly in love with some sexy widow or divorcée and have a wild affair. Or maybe he’ll get married again and father a passel of kids.”
Carly grinned and shook her head, but as she looked out at the rain-misted Oregon terrain, her expression turned wistful. Here was her chance to live out her dreams and really be somebody besides a beauty queen.
She hoped she had what it took to succeed in the real world.
Carly’s new apartment was in Janet’s building, and it was a simple one-bedroom unit painted white throughout. Since the walls were still wet, it smelled of chemical fumes.
The carpets, freshly cleaned, were a toasty beige color, and there was a fireplace, fronted with fake white marble, in the living room. Carly looked forward to reading beside a crackling wood fire in her favorite chenille bathrobe.
“What do you think?” Janet asked, spreading her arms as though she’d conjured the whole place, like a modern-day Merlin.
Carly smiled, wishing the paint were dry and her furniture had arrived. It would have been nice to settle in and start getting used to her new home. “It’s great. Thanks for taking the time to find it for me, Janet.”
“It wasn’t any big deal, considering that I live in this building. Come on, we’ll change our clothes, get some supper out and take in a movie.”
“You’re sure you don’t have a date?” Carly asked, following her friend out of the apartment. They had already taken the suitcases to Janet’s place.
“He’ll keep,” Janet answered with a mysterious smile.
Carly thought of Reggie, her erstwhile fiancé, and wondered what he was doing at that very moment. Making rounds at the hospital, probably. Or swimming at the country club. She seriously doubted that he missed her; his career was the real priority in his life. “Are you in love?”
They were all the way to Janet’s door before she answered. “I don’t really know. Tom is good-looking and nice, and he has a good job. Maybe those things are enough—maybe love is just a figment of some poet’s imagination.”
Carly shook her head as she followed her friend into an apartment that was virtually a duplicate of the one they’d just left, except for the carpet. Here, it was forest green. “I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you,” she warned. “There might just be something to this love business.”
“Yeah,” Janet agreed, tossing her purse onto the sofa and shrugging out of her raincoat. “Bruised hearts and insomnia.”
After that, Carly stopped trying to win her friend over to her point of view. She didn’t know the first thing about love herself, except that she’d never been in it, not even with Reggie.
“An advice column?” Carly’s voice echoed in her cramped corner office the following Monday morning. “But I thought I was going to be a reporter….”
Carly’s new boss, Allison Courtney, stood tall and tweedy in the doorway. She was a no-nonsense type, with alert gray eyes, sleek blond hair pulled tightly into a bun and impeccable make-up. “When we hired you, Carly, we thought you were a team player,” she scolded cordially.
“Of course I am, but—”
“A lot of people would kill for a job like this, you know. I mean, think of it. You’re getting paid to tell other people what to do, for heaven’s sake!”
Carly had pictured herself interviewing senators and homeless people, covering trials and stand-offs between the police and the underworld. She knew the advice column was a plum, but it had never occurred to her that she’d be asked to serve in that capacity, and she was frankly disappointed. Calling upon years of training, she assumed a cheerful expression. “Where do I start?”
Allison returned Carly’s smile, pleased. “Someone will bring you this week’s batch of mail. You’ll find all the experts you need listed in the Rolodex. Oh, and between letters you might help out with clerical work and such. Welcome aboard.” With that, she stepped out, closing the office door behind her.
Carly set the box down on her desk with a clunk and sank into her chair. “Clerical work?” she echoed, tossing a glance at the computer system perched at her elbow. “Good grief. Did I come all the way to Oregon just to be a glorified secretary?”
As if in answer, the telephone on her desk buzzed.
“Carly Barnett,” she said into the receiver, after pushing four different buttons in order to get the right line.
“Just seeing if it works,” replied a bright female voice. “I’m Emmeline Rogers, and I’m sort of your secretary.”
Carly felt a little better, until she remembered that she was probably going to spend as much time doing office work as writing. Maybe more. “Hi,” she said shyly.
“Want some coffee or something?”
Carly definitely felt better. “Thanks. That would be great.”
Moments later, Emmeline appeared with coffee. She was small, with plain brown hair, green eyes and a ready smile. “I brought pink sugar, in case you wanted it.”
Carly thanked the woman again and stirred half a packet of sweetener into the hot, strong coffee. “There are supposed to be some letters floating around here somewhere. Do you know where they are?”
Emmeline nodded and then glanced at her watch. Maybe she was one of those people who took an early lunch, Carly thought. “I’ll bring them in.”
“Great,” Carly answered. “Thanks.”
Emmeline slipped out and returned five minutes later with a mailbag the size of Santa’s sack. In fact, Carly was reminded of the courtroom scene in Miracle On 34th Street when the secretary spilled letters all over her desk.
By the time Emmeline had emptied the bag, Carly couldn’t even see over the pile. She would have to unearth her computer and telephone before she could start working.
“I couldn’t think of a way to break it to you gently,” Emmeline said.
Carly took a steadying sip of her coffee and muttered, “Allison said I’d be helping out with clerical work during slack times.”
Emmeline smiled. “Allison thinks she has a sense of humor. The rest of us know better.”
Carly chuckled and shoved the fingers of her left hand through her hair. Until two weeks ago, when she’d made the final decision to break off with Reggie and come to Oregon, she’d worn it long. The new cut, reaching just a couple of inches below her earlobes, had been a statement of sorts; she was starting over fresh.
Emmeline left her with a little shrug and a sympathetic smile. “Buzz me if you need anything.”
Carly was beginning to sort the letters into stacks. “If there’s another avalanche,” she responded, “send in a search party.”
Her telephone and computer had both reappeared by the time a brisk knock sounded at her office door. Mark poked his head around it before she had time to call out a “Come in” or even wonder why Emmeline hadn’t buzzed to announce a visitor.
“Hi,” he said, assessing the mountain of letters with barely concealed amusement. He was probably off to interview the governor or some astronaut.
Carly gave him a dour look. “Hi,” she responded.
He stepped into the tiny office and closed the door. “Your secretary’s on a break,” he said. He was wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and a tan corduroy jacket.
“What I need is a moat stocked with crocodiles,” Carly retorted with a saucy smile. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this man—he produced an odd tangle of reactions that weren’t easy to unravel and define. The impact of his presence was almost overwhelming—he seemed to fill the room, leaving no space for her—and Carly was both intrigued and frightened.
She was at once attracted to him, and defensive about her lack of experience as a journalist.
Mark drew up the only extra chair, turned it around backward and sat astraddle of it, resting his arms across the back. “What are they going to call this column now? ‘Dear Miss Congeniality’?”
“I wasn’t Miss Congeniality,” Carly pointed out, arching her eyebrows and deliberately widening her eyes.
“Little wonder,” he replied philosophically.
Carly leaned forward in her chair and did her best to glower. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Yes. I’d like you to go to dinner with me tonight.”
Carly was putting rubber bands around batches of letters and stacking them on her credenza. A little thrill pirouetted up her spine and then did a triple flip to the pit of her stomach. Even though every instinct she possessed demanded that she refuse, she found herself nodding. “I’d enjoy that.”
“We could take in a movie afterward, if you want.”
Carly looked at the abundance of letters awaiting her attention. “That would be stretching it. Maybe some other time.”
Idly Mark picked up one of the letters and opened it. His handsome brow furrowed as he read. “This one’s from a teenage girl,” he said, extending the missive to Carly. “What are you going to tell her?”
Carly took the page of lined notebook paper and scanned it. The young lady who’d written it was still in high school, and she was being pressured by the boy she dated to “go all the way.” She wanted to know how she could refuse without losing her boyfriend.
“I think she should stand her ground,” Carly said. “If the boy really cares about her, he’ll understand why she wants to wait.”
Mark nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, nobody expects you to reply to every letter,” he mused.
Carly sensed disapproval in his tone, though it was well masked. “What’s wrong with my answer?” she demanded.
“It’s a little simplistic, that’s all.” His guileless brown eyes revealed no recriminations.
Without understanding why, Carly was on the defensive. “I suppose you could come up with something better?”
He sighed. “No, just more extensive. I would tell her to talk to a counselor at school, or a clergyman, or maybe a doctor. Things are complex as hell out there, Carly. Kids have a lot more to worry about than making cheerleader or getting on the football team.”
Carly sat back in her hair and folded her arms. “Could it be, Mr. Holbrook,” she began evenly, “that you think I’m shallow just because I was Miss United States?”
He grinned. “Would I have asked you out to dinner if I thought you were shallow?”
“Probably.”
Mark shrugged and spread his hands. “I’m sure you mean well,” he conceded generously. “You’re just inexperienced, that’s all.”
She took up a packet of envelopes and switched on her computer. The printer beside it hummed efficiently at the flip of another switch. “I won’t ever have any experience,” she responded, “if you hang around my office for the rest of your life, picking my qualifications apart.”
He stood up. “I assume you have a degree in psychology?”
“You know better.”
Mark was at the door now, his hand on the knob. “True. I looked you up in the Reader’s Digest book of Beauty Queens. You majored in—”
“Journalism,” Carly interrupted.
Although his expression was chagrined, his eyes twinkled as he offered her a quick salute. “See you at dinner,” he said, and then he was gone.
Thoroughly unsettled, Carly turned her attention back to the letters she was expected to deal with.
Resolutely she opened an envelope, took out the folded page and began to read.
By lunchtime, Carly’s head was spinning. She was certainly no Pollyanna, but she’d never dreamed there were so many people out there leading lives of quiet desperation.
Slipping on her raincoat and reaching for her purse and umbrella, she left the Times offices and made her way to a cozy little delicatessen on the corner. She ordered chicken salad and a diet cola, then sat down at one of the round metal tables and stared out at the people hurrying past the rain-beaded window.
After a morning spent reading about other people’s problems, she was completely depressed. This was a state of mind that just naturally conjured up thoughts of Reggie.
Carly lifted her soft drink and took a sip. Maybe she’d done the wrong thing, breaking her engagement and leaving Kansas to start a whole new life. After all, Reggie was an honest-to-God doctor. He was already making over six figures a year, and he owned his sprawling brick house outright.
Glumly Carly picked up her plastic fork and took a bite of her salad. Perhaps Janet was right, and love was about bruised hearts and insomnia. Maybe it was some kind of neurotic compulsion.
Hell, maybe it didn’t exist at all.
At the end of her lunch hour, Carly returned to her office to find a note propped against her computer screen. It was written on the back of one of the envelopes, in firm black letters that slanted slightly to the right. This guy needs professional help. Re: dinner—meet me downstairs in the lobby at seven. Mark.
Carly shook her head and smiled as she took the letter out of the envelope. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as she read about the plight of a man who was in love with his Aunt Gertrude. Nothing in journalism school, or in a year’s reign as Miss United States, had prepared her for dealing with things like this.
She set the letter aside and opened another one.
Allison popped in at five minutes before five. “Hello,” she chimed. “How are things going?”
Carly worked up a smile. “Until today,” she replied, “I had real hope for humanity.”
Allison gestured toward the Rolodex on the credenza. “I trust you’re making good use of Madeline’s files. She made some excellent contacts in the professional community while she was here.”
Madeline, of course, was Carly’s predecessor, who had left her job to join her professor husband on a sabbatical overseas. “I haven’t gotten that far,” Carly responded. “I’m still in the sorting process.”
Allison shook a finger at Carly, assuming a stance and manner that made her resemble an elementary school librarian. “Now remember, you have deadlines, just like everyone else at this paper.”
Carly nodded. She was well aware that she was expected to turn in a column before quitting time on Wednesday. “I’ll be ready,” she said, and she was relieved when Allison left it at that and disappeared again.
She was stuffing packets of letters into her briefcase when Janet arrived to collect her.
“So how was it?” Janet asked, pushing a button on the elevator panel. The doors whisked shut.
“Grueling,” Carly answered, patting her briefcase with the palm of one hand. “Talk about experience. I’m expected to deal with everything from the heartbreak of psoriasis to nuclear war.”
Janet smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she teased. “God did.”
Carly rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I think he divided the overflow between Abigail Van Buren, Ann Landers and me.”
In the lobby the doors swished open, and Carly found herself face-to-face with Mark Holbrook. Perhaps because she was unprepared for the encounter, she felt as though the floor had just dissolved beneath her feet.
Janet nudged her hard in the ribs.
“M-Mark, this is Janet McClain,” Carly stammered with all the social grace of a nervous ninth grader. “We went to high school and college together.”
Carly begrudged the grin Mark tossed in Janet’s direction. “Hello,” he said suavely, and Carly thought, just fleetingly, of Cary Grant.
Mark’s warm brown eyes moved to Carly. “Remember—we’re supposed to meet at seven for dinner.”
Carly was still oddly star struck, and she managed nothing more than a nod in response.
“I take back every jaded remark I’ve ever made about love,” Janet whispered as she and Carly walked away. “I’ve just become a believer.”
Carly was shaken, but for some reason she needed to put on a front. “Take it from me, Janet,” she said cynically, “Mark Holbrook may look like a prize, but he’s too arrogant to make a good husband.”
“Umm,” said Janet.
“I mean, it’s not like every dinner date has to be marriage material—”
“Of course not,” Janet readily agreed.
A brisk and misty wind met them as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Times building, and Carly’s cheeks colored in a blush. She averted her eyes. “I know he’s the wrong kind of man for me—with all he’s accomplished, he must be driven, like Reggie, but—”
“But?” Janet prompted.
“When he asked me out for dinner, I meant to say no,” Carly confessed, “but somehow it came out yes.”
2
Carly arrived at the Times offices at five minutes to seven, wearing an attractive blue crepe de chine jumpsuit she’d borrowed from Janet and feeling guilty about all the unread letters awaiting her at home.
She stepped into the large lobby and looked around. She shouldn’t even be there, she thought to herself. When she’d left home, she’d had a plan for her life, and Mark Holbrook, attractive as he might be, wasn’t part of it.
An elevator bell chimed, doors swished open, and Mark appeared, as if conjured by her thoughts. He carried a briefcase in one hand and wore the same clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans, a flannel shirt and a corduroy jacket.
“This almost makes me wish I’d worn a tie,” he said, his warm brown eyes sweeping over her with admiration. Another of his lightning-charged grins flashed. “Then again, I’m glad I didn’t. You look wonderful, Ms. Congeniality.”
Carly let the beauty-pageant vernacular slide by. Although she’d had a lot of experience talking to people, she felt strangely shy around Mark. “Thanks,” she said.
They walked three blocks to Jake’s, an elegantly rustic restaurant-tavern that had been in business since 1892. When they walked in, the bartender called out a good-natured greeting to Mark, who answered with a thumbs-up sign, then proceeded to the reservations desk.
Soon Mark and Carly were seated in a booth on wooden benches, the backs towering over their heads. A waiter promptly brought them menus and greeted Mark by name.
Carly figured he probably brought a variety of women to the restaurant, and was inexplicably annoyed by the thought. She chose a Cajun plate, while Mark ordered a steak.
“Making any progress with the letters?” he asked when they were alone again.
Carly sighed. She’d probably be up until two or three in the morning, wading through them. “Let’s put it this way,” she answered, “I should be home working.”
The wine arrived and Mark tasted the sample the steward poured, then nodded. The claret was poured and the steward walked away, leaving the bottle behind.
Mark lifted his glass and touched it against Carly’s. “To workaholics everywhere,” he said.
Carly took a sip of her wine and set the glass aside. The word “workaholic” had brought Reggie to mind, and she felt as though he were sitting at the table with them, an unwelcome third. “What’s the most important thing in your life?” she asked to distract herself.
The waiter left their salads, then turned and walked away.
“Things don’t mean much to me,” Mark responded, lifting his fork. “It’s people who matter. And the most important person in my life is my son, Nathan.”
Even though she certainly wasn’t expecting anything to develop between herself and Mark, Carly was jarred by the mention of a child. “You’re not married, I hope,” she said, practically holding her breath.
“No, I’m divorced, and Nathan lives in California, with his mother,” he said. There was, for just an instant, a look of pain in his eyes. This was quickly displaced by a mischievous sparkle. “Would it matter to you—if I were married, I mean?”
Carly speared a cherry tomato somewhat vengefully. “Would it matter? Of course it would.”
“A lot of women don’t care.”
“I’m not a lot of women,” Carly responded, her tone resolute.
He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s a shortage of marriageable men out there, I’m told. Aren’t you worried that your biological clock is ticking, and all that?”
“Maybe in ten years I’ll be worried. Right now I’m interested in making some kind of life for myself.”
“Which you couldn’t do in the Midwest?”
“I wanted to do it here,” she said.
Mark smiled. “Exactly what kind of life are you picturing?”
Carly was beginning to feel as though she was being interviewed, but she didn’t mind. She understood how a reporter’s mind worked. “Mainly I want to write for a newspaper—not advice, but articles, like you do. And maybe I’ll buy myself a little house and a dog.”
“Sounds fulfilling,” Mark replied.
There was so little conviction in his voice that Carly peered across the table at him and demanded, “Just what did you mean by that?”
He widened those guileless choirboy eyes of his and sat back on the bench as though he expected the salt shaker to detonate. “I was just thinking—well, it’s a shame that so few women want to have babies anymore.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to have babies,” Carly pointed out. Her voice had risen, and she blushed to see that the people at the nearest table were looking at her. “I love babies,” she clarified in an angry whisper. “I plan to breast-feed and everything!”
The waiter startled Carly by suddenly appearing at her elbow to deliver dinner, and Mark grinned at her reaction.
She spoke in a peevish hiss. “Let’s just get off this topic of conversation, all right?”
“All right,” Mark agreed. “Tell me, what made you start entering beauty pageants?”
It wasn’t the subject Carly would have chosen, but she could live with it. “Not ‘what,’” she replied. “‘Who.’ It was my mother. She started entering me in contests when I was four and, except for a few years when I was in an awkward stage, she kept it up until I was old enough to go to college.”
“And then you won the Miss United States title?”
Carly nodded, smiling slightly as she recalled those exciting days. “You’d have thought Mom was the winner, she was so pleased. She called everybody we knew.”
Mark was cutting his steak. “She must miss you a lot.”
Carly bent her head, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “She died of cancer a couple of weeks after the pageant.”
When Carly lifted a hand back to the table, Mark’s was waiting to enfold it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
His sympathy brought quick, stinging tears to her eyes. “It could have been worse,” Carly managed to say. “Everything happened almost instantaneously. She didn’t suffer much.”
Mark only nodded, his eyes caressing Carly in a way that eased the pain of remembering.
“How old is Nathan?” she asked, and the words came out a little awkwardly.
Mark’s voice was hoarse when he answered. “He’s ten,” he replied, opening his wallet and taking out a photo.
Nathan Holbrook was handsome, like his father, with brown hair and eyes, and he was dressed in a baseball uniform and was holding a bat, ready to swing.
Carly smiled and handed the picture back. “It must be difficult living so far away from him,” she commented.
Mark nodded, and Carly noticed that he averted his eyes for a moment.
“Is something wrong?” she asked softly.
“Nothing I want to trouble you with,” Mark responded, putting away his wallet. “Sure you don’t want to go take in a movie?”
Carly thought of the pile of letters she had yet to read. She gave her head a regretful shake. “Maybe some other time. Right now I’m under a lot of pressure to show Allison and the powers-that-be that I can handle this job.”
They finished their meal, then Mark settled the bill with a credit card. He held her hand as they walked to his car, which was parked in a private lot beneath the newspaper building.
Barely fifteen minutes later, they were in front of Janet’s door. Mark bent his head and gave Carly a kiss that, for all its innocuousness, made her nerve endings vibrate.
“Good night,” he murmured, while Carly was still trying to get her bearings. A moment after that, he disappeared into the elevator.
“Well?” Janet demanded the second Carly let herself into the apartment.
Carly smiled and shook her head. “It was love at first sight,” she responded sweetly. “We’re getting married tonight, flying to Rio tomorrow and starting our family the day after.”
Janet bounded off the couch and followed Carly as she went through the bedroom and stood outside the bathroom door while she exchanged the jumpsuit for an oversize T-shirt. “Details!” she cried. “Give me details!”
Carly came out of the bathroom, carrying the jumpsuit, and hung it back in the closet. “Mark and I are all wrong for each other,” she said.
“How do you figure that?”
Turning away from the closet, Carly shrugged. “The guy sends out mixed messages. He’s very attractive, but he’s bristly, too. And he’s got some very old-fashioned ideas about women.”
Janet looked disappointed for a moment, then brightened. “If you’re not going to see Mark anymore, how about fixing me up with him?”
Carly was surprised at the strong reaction the suggestion produced in her. She marched across Janet’s living room, took her briefcase from the breakfast bar and set it down on the Formica-topped table with a thump. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to see him again,” she said, snapping the catches and pulling out a stack of letters.
After tossing her friend a smug little smile, Janet said good-night and went off to bed. Carly looked with longing at the fold-out sofa, then made herself a cup of tea and set to work.
Although there was no sign of Emmeline when Carly arrived at work the next morning, suppressing almost continuous yawns and hoping the dark circles under her eyes weren’t too pronounced, a memo had been taped to her computer screen.
Staff meeting, the message read. Nine-thirty, conference room.
Carly glanced at her watch, sat down at her desk and began reading letters again. It was almost a relief when the time came to leave her small office for the meeting.
The long conference room table was encircled by people, and they all seemed to be talking at the same time. An enormous pot of coffee chortled on a table in the corner, and a blue haze of cigarette smoke lapped at the walls like an intangible tide. Carly poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the only empty chair in the room, shaking her head when a secretary came by with a box full of assorted pastries.
Through the sea of smoke, she saw Mark sitting directly across from her. He grinned and tilted his head slightly to one side in a way that was vaguely indulgent.
Mixed messages again, Carly thought, responding with a tight little smile.
The managing editor, a slender, white-haired man with the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to his elbows and suspenders holding up his pants, called the meeting to order.
Carly listened intently as he went over the objectives of the newspaper and gave out assignments.
The best one, a piece on crack houses for the Sunday edition, went to Mark, and Carly felt a sting of envy. While he was out in the field, grappling with real life, she would be tucked away in her tiny office, reading letters from the forlorn.
Mark sat back in his chair, not drinking coffee or eating doughnuts or smoking like the others, his eyes fixed on Carly. She was relieved when the meeting finally ended.
“So,” boomed Mr. Clark, the managing editor, just as Carly was pushing back her chair to leave, “how do you like writing the advice column?”
Carly glanced uncomfortably at Mark, who had lingered to open a nearby window. Now’s a nice time to think of that, she reflected to herself, and Mark looked back at her as though she’d spoken aloud.
She remembered Mr. Clark and his affable question. “I haven’t actually written anything yet,” she answered diplomatically. “I’m still wading through the letters.”
Mark was standing beside the table again, his hands resting on the back of a chair. “You’re aware, of course,” he put in, “that Ms. Barnett doesn’t have any real qualifications for that job?”
Carly looked at him in stunned disbelief, and he favored her with a placid grin.
Mr. Clark was watching Carly, but he spoke as though she wasn’t there. “Allison seems to think Ms. Barnett can handle the work,” he said thoughtfully, and there was just enough uncertainty in his voice to worry the newest member of his staff.
Carly ignored Mark completely. “You won’t be sorry for giving me a chance, Mr. Clark,” she said.
The older man nodded distractedly and left the conference room. Carly was right behind him, but a sudden grip on her upper arm stopped her.
“Give me a chance to explain,” Mark said in a low voice.
The man had done his best to get her fired, and after she’d uprooted herself and spent most of her life savings to move to Oregon, too.
“There’s no need for explanations,” she told him, wrenching her arm free of his hand. “You’ve made your opinion of my abilities perfectly clear.”
He started to say something in response, then stopped himself and, with an exasperated look on his face, stepped past Carly and disappeared into his office.
She went back to her office and continued working. By noon she’d read all the letters and selected three to answer in her column. The problems were clear-cut, in Carly’s opinion, and there was no need to contact any of the experts in Madeline’s Rolodex. All a person needed, she thought to herself, was a little common sense.
She was just finishing the initial draft of her first column when there was a light rap at the door and Allison stepped in. She hadn’t been at the staff meeting, and she looked harried.
“Is the column done by any chance?” she asked anxiously. “We could really use some help over in Food and Fashion.”
Carly pushed the print button on the keyboard and within seconds handed Allison the hard copy of her column.
Allison scanned it, making hmm sounds that told Carly exactly nothing, then nodded. “This will do, I guess. I’ll take you to F&F and you can help Anthony for the rest of the day. He’s at his wit’s end.”
Carly was excited. She wouldn’t be accompanying the police on a crack-house raid like Mark, but she might at least get to cover a fashion show or a bake-off. Either one would get her out of the building.
Anthony Cornelius turned out to be a slim, good-looking young man with blond hair and blue eyes. Allison introduced Carly, then disappeared.
“I’ve been perishing to meet you,” Anthony said with a straight face. “I would have said hello at the staff meeting, but the smoke was absolutely blinding me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
Carly smiled. “I know what you mean,” she said as Anthony gestured toward a chair facing his immaculate desk.
“I’ve got a tape of your pageant, you know. You were splendid.”
“Thank you,” Carly demurred. She was getting a little embarrassed at the reminders of past glories.
Anthony gave a showy sigh. “Well, enough chitchat. I’m just buried in work, and I’m desperate for your help. There’s a cooking contest at the St. Regis Hotel today, while the mall is putting on the biggest fashion show ever. Needless to say, I can’t be in two places at once.”
Carly hid her delight by crossing her legs and smoothing her light woolen skirt. “What would you like me to do?”
“You may have your choice,” Anthony answered, frowning as he flipped through a notebook on his desk. “Fashion or food.”
Carly had already thought the choice through. “I’ll take the cooking contest,” she said.
“Fabulous,” Anthony responded without looking up from his notes. “St. Regis Hotel, two-fifteen. I’ve already sent a photographer over. I’ll see you back here afterward.”
Eagerly Carly rose from her chair and headed for the door. “Anthony?”
He raised his eyes inquiringly.
“Thanks,” Carly said, and then she hurried out.
After collecting her purse, notebook and coat, Carly set off for the St. Regis Hotel, which turned out to be within walking distance of the newspaper office. She spent several happy hours interviewing amateur chefs and tasting their special dishes, and she even managed to get them to divulge a few secret recipes.
Returning to her office late that afternoon, having forgotten lunch entirely, Carly absorbed the fact that a new batch of letters had been delivered and sat down at her computer to write up the piece on the cooking contest.
Anthony turned out to be a taskmaster, despite his gentle ways, and Carly willing did three rewrites before he was satisfied. She was about to switch off her computer and go home for the day, taking a briefcase full of letters with her, when a message appeared unbidden on the screen.
“Hello, Carly,” it read.
Frowning, Carly pushed her big reading glasses up the bridge of her nose and typed the response without thinking. “Hello.”
“How about having dinner with me again tonight? I’ll cook.”
It was Mark. She wondered whether the message was appearing on every computer screen in the office, or just hers. In the end it didn’t matter, since it was late and most everyone else had already gone home. “No, thanks,” she typed resolutely. “I never dine with traitors.”
“I’ll explain if you’ll just give me the chance.”
“How are you doing this?”
“Trade secret. Do we have a date or not?”
“No.”
“Will begging help?”
Carly shut off her computer, filled her briefcase with letters and left the office. She walked to the department store where Janet was employed and found that her friend was still working.
After consulting a schedule, Carly caught a bus back to the apartment building and was overjoyed when the manager, Mrs. Pickering, greeted her with the news that her car and furniture had been delivered.
“I made sure they set up the bed for you,” the plump, middle-aged woman said as Carly turned the key in the lock.
The living room was filled with boxes, but the familiar couch and chair were there, as was the small television set. The dining table was in its place next to the kitchenette.
Carly set her briefcase and purse down on the small desk in the living room, then lifted the receiver on her telephone. She heard a dial tone and smiled. Her service was connected.
Feeling unaccountably domestic, Carly thanked Mrs. Pickering for her trouble and set out immediately for the parking lot. Her blue Mustang, one of the prizes she’d won as Miss United States, was in its proper slot.
Taking the keys from her purse, Carly unlocked the car, got behind the wheel and started the engine. She drove to the nearest all-night supermarket and bought a cartful of food and cleaning supplies, then came home and made herself a light supper of soup and salad in her own kitchen.
She dialed Janet’s number and left a message on her friend’s answering machine, then called her father, knowing he’d be up watching the news.
Don Barnett picked up the telephone on the second ring and gave his customary gruff hello.
“Hi, Dad. It’s Carly.”
She heard pleasure in his voice. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. “All settled in?”
Carly sat down in her desk chair and told her father all about her apartment and her new job.
He listened with genuine interest, and then announced that Reggie was engaged to a nurse from Topeka.
“It didn’t take him long, did it?” Carly asked. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—maybe that Reggie would at least have the decency to pine for a month or two.
Her father chuckled. “Having a few second thoughts, are you?”
“No,” Carly said honestly. “I just didn’t think I was quite so forgettable, that’s all.” They talked a little longer, then ended the call with promises to stay in touch.
Carly was feeling homesick when a knock sounded at her door. She had never been very close to her mother, despite the inordinate amount of time they’d spent together, but her dad was a kindred spirit.
She put one eye to the peephole and sighed when she saw Mark standing in the hallway.
She opened the door to the length of the chain and looked out at him uncharitably. “Aren’t you supposed to be participating in a crack-house raid or something?”
He flashed one of his lethal grins. “That’s tomorrow night. May I come in?”
The living room was still filled with unopened boxes, and Carly was wearing her pink bathrobe. Her hair was probably a mess, too. And this man had tried to get her fired just that morning.
Despite all these things, Carly unfastened the chain and opened the door.
Mark was wearing jeans and a navy-blue football jersey with the number “39” printed on it in white, and he carried a bouquet of pink daisies.
Carly eyed them with a certain disdain, even though she secretly loved daisies. “If you think a few flowers are going to make up for the way you sandbagged me this morning—”
Mark sighed. “I was trying to get Clark to move you to another assignment.”
“I’ll be lucky if you didn’t get me booted out instead,” Carly replied. Grudgingly she took the daisies, carried them to the kitchenette and filled a glass with water.
When she turned around, she collided with Mark, and, for several excruciatingly sweet moments, her body seemed to be fused to his. She was possessed by a frightening and completely unexpected urge to bare herself to him, to feel his flesh against hers.
She shook her head as if to awaken herself from a dream and started to step around him.
He pinned her against the counter, using just his hips, and Carly felt heat rise from her stomach to her face as he took the daisies and set them aside. His voice was a low, rhythmic rumble.
“I’m not through apologizing,” he said, and then he bent his head and touched Carly’s lips tentatively with his own.
She gave a little whimper, because she wanted so much to spurn him and could not, and the kiss deepened. He shaped her mouth with his, and explored its depths with his tongue.
Even with Reggie, the man she’d planned to marry, Carly had been able to withstand temptation easily. With Mark, things were startlingly different. He had overridden her resistance, stirring a sudden and brutal need within her with a simple kiss.
Carly found herself melting against her kitchen counter like a candle set close to a fire. She had a dizzy, disoriented feeling, as though she’d just stepped off some wild ride at a carnival.
With a little chuckle, Mark withdrew from her mouth only to nibble lightly at the length of her neck. He cupped her breast with his hand, and beneath the terry cloth her nipple pulsed to attention.
She moaned helplessly, and Mark lifted her onto the counter. Then he uncovered the breast he had aroused and began to suck gently on its peak.
Carly drew in a swift breath. She knew she should push him away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that. What he was doing felt entirely too good.
He traced her collarbone with kisses and then bared her other breast and took its pink tip boldly into his mouth.
Carly gave a strangled groan and let her head fall back against the cupboard door. With one of her hands, she clutched Mark’s shoulder, and with the other she pressed the back of his head, holding him close to her.
She clasped his waist between her knees, as though to keep from flying away, and when she felt his hand move down over her belly, she could only tremble. When he found her secret, and began to caress it with his fingers, she started and cried out softly.
“Shh,” he said against her moist, well-suckled nipple. “It’s all right.”
Carly, who had never given herself to a man before, sought his lips with her own, desperate for his kiss. He mastered her mouth thoroughly, then went back to her breasts. He continued his gentle plundering, and Carly’s heels rose to the counter’s edge in a motion of abject surrender.
Mark kissed his way down her belly and wrung a raw gasp from her throat when he took her boldly into his mouth. He gripped Carly’s ankles firmly, parting her legs until she was totally vulnerable to him.
A fine sheen of perspiration covered her body as he attended her, and her hair clung, moist, to her forehead and her cheeks. She writhed and twisted, murmuring nonsense words, while Mark drove her toward sweet damnation.
She cried out at the fiery tumult shuddering through her body, surrendered shamelessly to the searing pleasure. And when it was over, tears of confusion and relief trickled down her cheek.
Gently Mark released her ankles so that she could lower her legs. He closed her robe and kissed her damp brow softly.
“Oh, God,” Carly whispered, as shame flowed into her, like water rushing into a tide pool.
Mark traced her lips with the tip of one finger, and considered her with kind eyes. “Chemistry,” he said, and then, to Carly’s utter amazement, he turned away.
She scooted off the counter and stood for several moments, waiting for her knees to stabilize. Mark had already reached the door, and his hand was resting on the knob.
Carly cinched the belt of her bathrobe tightly. She couldn’t believe it. This man had aroused her thoroughly, had subjected her to a scorching climax—and now he was leaving. “Where are you going?”
The insolent brown eyes caressed her as he opened the door. “Home.”
“But…”
There was a touch of sadness to his smile. “Yes,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “I want you. But we’re going to wait.”
Carly was finally able to move. She stumbled a few steps toward him, filled with resentment because he’d made her need him so desperately and then dismissed her. “You would have been the first,” she taunted him, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes slid over her slender body, which was still quivering with outrage and violent appeasement. “I’ll be the first,” he assured her, “and the last.”
And then he was gone.
3
Carly didn’t see Mark the next day, but another mysterious message appeared on her computer screen late in the afternoon, just as she was getting ready to go home.
“Nice coverage on the food contest,” the glowing green letters said, “but telling ‘Frazzled in Farleyville’ to get a divorce was truly cavalier. Who the hell do you think you are, Joyce Brothers?”
Carly sighed. All her life, her view of the world had been pretty clear-cut: this was right, that was wrong; this was good, that was bad. Now she was faced with a man who could melt her bones one moment, and attack her most basic principles the next.
She poised her fingers over the keyboard for a few minutes, sinking her teeth into her lower lip, then typed, “If you don’t like my column, Holbrook, do us both a favor and stop reading it.”
Mark’s response took only seconds to appear. “That’s what I like,” it jibed. “A rookie who knows how to heed the voice of experience.”
“Thank you, Ann Landers,” Carly typed succinctly. “Good night, and goodbye.” With that, she shut down the system, gathered up her things and left the room.
Somewhat to her disappointment, there were no computer messages from Mark the next day or the one after that, and he didn’t appear in any of the staff meetings, either.
Carly told herself she was relieved, but she was also concerned. She worried, at odd moments, about Mark’s undercover assignment with the police. A thousand times a day she wondered how soon word would leak out if something went wrong…
A full week had passed when she encountered Mark again, at a media party in the ballroom of a downtown hotel. He was wearing jeans, a lightweight blue sweater and a tweed sports jacket while all the other men sported suits, and he still managed to look quietly terrific.
His eyes flipped over Carly’s slinky pink sheath, and instantly her nipples hardened and pressed against the glimmering cloth. “Hi,” he said, and the word was somehow intimate, bringing back Technicolor memories of the incident on her kitchen counter.
Carly’s cheeks went as pink as her dress, and she folded her arms in self-defense. “Well,” she said acidly, “I see you survived the crack raid.”
Mark took hold of her elbow and gently but firmly escorted her through the crush of television, radio and newspaper people toward the lobby. “We need to talk.”
Carly glared at him. “I think it would be best if we just communicated through our computers. Better yet,” she added, starting to move around him, “let’s not communicate at all.”
He captured her arm again, pulled her back and pressed her to sit on a bench upholstered in royal-blue velvet. He took a seat beside her and looked into her eyes, frowning. “What did I do now?”
She straightened her spine, drew a deep breath and let it out again. “That has to be the most obtuse question I’ve ever heard,” she said stiffly.
“I doubt it,” Mark retorted, before she could go on to say that she didn’t appreciate his criticism and his nonchalant efforts to get her fired. “Considering that you’ve probably been asked things like, ‘How do you walk without your tiara falling off?’ and ‘What contribution do you think tap dancing will make to world peace?”’
Carly leaned close to him and spoke through her teeth. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Hotshot Pulitzer Prize Winner, if you would stop making comments about my title!”
His wonderful, damnable brown eyes twinkled. “Okay,” he conceded, “just answer one question, and I will.”
Carly was cautious. “Fair enough,” she allowed huffily. “Ask away.”
“What was your talent?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the pageant. When the other semifinalists sang and danced and played stirring classical pieces on the piano, what did you do?”
Carly swallowed and averted her eyes.
Mark prompted her with a little nudge.
“I twirled a baton,” she blurted out in a furious whisper. “Are you satisfied?”
“No,” Mark replied, and even though he wasn’t smiling, his amusement showed in every line of his body. “But I’ll let the subject drop for the time being.”
“Good,” Carly growled, and sprang off the bench.
Mark pulled her back down again. “Lighten up, Barnett,” he said. “If you can’t take a little ribbing, you won’t last five minutes in this business.”
Carly’s face was flushed, and she yearned to get out into the cool, crisp May evening. “So now I’m thin-skinned, as well as incompetent.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I never said you were incompetent, but you’re damned cranky. I can’t figure out which you need more—a good spanking or a very thorough session on a mattress.”
That was it. Carly had reached the limit of her patience. She jumped up off the bench again and stormed back into the party.
She would have preferred to walk out of that hotel, get into her car and drive home. But she knew contacts were vital, and she wanted to meet as many people as she could.
She stayed an hour and a half, avoiding Mark, passing out and collecting business cards. Then she put on her shiny white taffeta blazer and headed for the parking lot.
She had unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel before she realized that Mark was sitting in the passenger seat. Surprise and fury made her gasp. “How did you get in here? This car was locked!”
He grinned at her. “I learned the trick from Iggy DeFazzio, a kid I interviewed when I was doing a piece on street gangs.”
Carly knew it wouldn’t do any good to demand that he leave her car, and she wasn’t strong enough to throw him out bodily. She started the ignition and glared at him. “Where to, Mr. Holbrook?”
“My place,” he said with absolute confidence that he’d get his way.
“Has anybody ever told you that you are totally obnoxious?”
“No, but my teenage niece once said I was totally awesome, and I think she meant it as a compliment.”
Carly pulled out into the light evening traffic. “You must have paid her.”
Mark spoke pleasantly. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t grovel and give directions at the same time,” he replied.
Wondering why she was obeying when this man had done nothing but insult her since the moment she’d met him, Carly nonetheless stopped the car and surrendered the wheel to Mark. Soon they were speeding down the freeway.
“So,” he began again brightly, “when you were twirling your baton, were the ends on fire?”
Carly reached out and slugged him in the arm, but a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Is this your idea of groveling?”
He laughed. “Meet anybody interesting at the party?”
“Two or three TV newscasters and a talk-show host,” she answered, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m having dinner with Jim Benson from Channel 37 Friday night.”
Mark’s jaw tightened for just a moment, and he tossed a sidelong glance in her direction. “He’s a lech,” he said.
“If he gets out of line,” she replied immediately, “I’ll just hit him with my baton.”
Mark cleared his throat and steered the car onto an exit. “Carly—”
“What?”
“We got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”
Carly folded her arms. “Whose fault was that?”
He let out a ragged sigh as they came to a stop at a red light. “For purposes of expediency,” he muttered, “I’ll admit that it was mine. Partly.”
“That’s generous of you.”
The light changed, and they drove up a steep hill. “Damn it,” Mark bit out, “will you just let me finish?”
Carly spread her hands in a motion of generosity. “Go ahead.”
He turned onto a long, curving driveway, the headlights sweeping over evergreen trees, giant ferns and assorted brush. “I have a lot of respect for you as a person.”
“I haven’t heard that one since the night of the junior prom when Johnny Shupe wanted to put his hand down the front of my dress.”
The car jerked to a stop beside a compact pickup truck, and Mark shut off the ignition and the headlights. “I get it,” he snapped. “You’re mad because I only took you part of the way!”
Carly wanted to slap him for bringing up the kitchen-counter incident, even indirectly, but she restrained herself. “Why, you arrogant bastard!” she breathed instead, clenching her fists. “How dare you talk to me like that?”
He got out of the car, slammed the door and came around to her side. Before she thought to push down the lock, he was bending over her, his lips only a whisper away from hers. “This is how,” he replied, and then he kissed her.
At first, Carly resisted, stiffening her body and pressing her lips together in a tight line. But soon Mark’s persuasive tongue conquered her, and she whimpered with unwilling pleasure, sagging limply against the back of the car seat.
Presently he took her arm and ushered her out of the car and into the house. By the faint glow of the porch light, Carly could see that it was an old-fashioned brick cottage, with wooden shutters on the windows and a fanlight over the door.
In the small entryway he kissed her again, and the sensations the contact stirred in her pushed all thoughts of their differences to the back of her mind.
“It looks like there’s one thing we’re going to have to get out of our way before we can make sense of what’s happening to us, Carly,” he said when the kiss was over. He smoothed away her blazer with gentle hands.
Carly, who had been an avowed ice maiden in high school and college, was suddenly as pliant and willing as a sixteenth-century tavern wench. Her body seemed to be waging some kind of heated rebellion against the resolutions of her mind.
She knew she should get into her car and go home, but she couldn’t make herself walk away from Mark.
He led her into a pleasantly cluttered living room where lamps were burning and seated her on the couch. Carly watched as he lit a fire on the hearth, then shifted her gaze to a desk facing a bank of windows. A computer screen glowed companionably among stacks of books and papers.
“I do a lot of my work at home,” Mark explained, dusting his hands together as he rose from the hearth. “You can’t see it now, of course, but there’s a great view of the river from those windows.”
Carly was still trying to shore up her sagging defenses, but the attempt was largely hopeless. Mark’s kisses had left her feeling as though she’d been drugged.
He left the room briefly and returned with two bottles of wine cooler and a couple of glasses. Taking a seat beside Carly on the cushiony sofa, which was upholstered in mauve suede, he opened the bottles and poured.
Carly figured she had about as much chance coming out of this with her virginity intact as she would have escaping a sheik’s harem. The crazy thing was, she didn’t want to leave.
Mark handed her a glass, and she took a cautious sip.
“I’m really very bright, you know,” she said, feeling defensive. “I got terrific grades in college.”
He smiled, set his goblet on the coffee table and swung her legs up onto his lap. “Umm-hmm,” he said, slipping off her high-heeled shoes one by one and tossing them away.
Some last vestige of pride made Carly stiffen. “You don’t believe me!”
Mark ran a soothing hand over her right foot and ankle, and against her will she relaxed again. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t,” he answered quietly. “There were over a hundred applicants for your job at the Times, and all of them were qualified.”
Carly was pleased. “Really?”
Mark took advantage of the sexy slit on the side of her pink dress to caress the back of her knee. “Really,” he said.
She put her glass aside, feeling as though she’d already consumed a reservoir full of alcohol. On the hearth the fire crackled and snapped. “I really should go straight home,” she said.
“I know,” Mark agreed.
“I mean, it’s possible that I don’t even like you.”
“I know that, too,” he responded with a grin.
“But we’re going to make love, aren’t we?”
Mark nodded. “Yes,” he said, and then he stood and drew Carly off the couch and into a gentle embrace. He kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose. “If you really want to go home,” he said, “it’s OK.”
Carly let her forehead rest against his chest and slid her arms around his waist. “God help me,” she whispered, “I want to stay.”
He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head back so he could look into her eyes. He moved his lips as though he meant to speak, but in the end he kissed her instead.
Again, she had the sensation of being swept into some kind of vortex, where none of the usual rules applied. When Mark lifted her into his arms, she laid her head against his shoulder.
He carried her up a set of stairs, along a hallway and into a room so large that Carly was sure it must run the entire length of the house. She noticed a fireplace, the shadowy shapes of chairs and, finally, the huge bed.
Made of dark wood, it stood on a U-shaped ledge, dominating the room. It was a place where a knight might have deflowered his lady, and Carly was filled with a sense of rightness, as well as desire.
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Linda Miller
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Carly Barnett’s lifelong dream was to be a journalist— tracking down leads, interviewing important people, making a difference.A job offer at Portland’s Oregonian Times seemed like an ideal place to start, until she learned exactly what she’d be doing. Writing an advice column for lonely hearts wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it was a beginning. Mark Holbrook did nothing to disguise his disdain for the new staff reporter—if you could call Carly’s column “reporting.”Still, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. But that didn’t mean he’d take her advice—not even if she held the key to his own lonely heart.“Ms. Miller brilliantly taps into all our deepest fantasies, creating pure reading magic for romance fans in search of the extraordinary.” —Romantic Times