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“Sorry.” She shook her head and, after a sip of the Merlot, added, “As much as I’d like to help you out—not to mention, keep other reporters away—I can’t reveal my sources.”
He nodded sagely. “Bad form?”
“Right up there with a magician giving away the secret to how he saws his assistant in half,” she said with sham seriousness.
His smile turned boyish and was all the more charming for it. “I’ve always wanted to know how that’s done.”
“I do,” she couldn’t help bragging. “Just after college I was assigned to do a feature on a guy who did a magic act at a local nightclub. After the interview, he showed me.”
“But you won’t tell me, will you?” Logan guessed.
“And ruin the illusion?”
“Right.” Logan chuckled. “So, are you hungry?”
“I’m getting there,” she replied casually.
In fact, Mallory was famished. She’d barely picked at her lunch, and breakfast—a toasted bagel with cream cheese eaten at her desk just after dawn—was a distant memory now.
“Good. I went ahead and made dinner.”
Her mouth actually watered. “The marinated flank steak you mentioned at the luncheon?” When he nodded, she said, “Do you mean you actually cooked it here?”
“I cooked the meat topside on that portable gas grill, and the rest was prepared below deck.”
The meal he’d described earlier seemed the sort one would make in a gourmet kitchen, so her tone was dubious when she asked, “You have an actual stove down there?”
He smiled. “Quarters may be a bit tight, but you’ll find my boat has all the amenities of home.”
Why did that simple sentence send heat curling through her veins?
“A-all?” she stammered, then cleared her throat. In a more professional tone, she inquired, “How is that possible? I mean, this thing is just—what?—thirty feet long.”
“Thirty-one, actually. But you’d be surprised what can be fitted into that amount of space using a bit of ingenuity. Want a tour?”
“I’d love one,” she said, even though the idea of moving below deck with him suddenly made her nervous. It wasn’t Logan who made her wary. Her concern had more to do with herself. Story, she reminded herself for what seemed like the millionth time since meeting him.
Luckily she was given a reprieve. “Can you wait until after dinner?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I’m in no hurry.”
Mallory sat at the table and let Logan serve her since he seemed to have everything under control. More than under control, she decided, when he reappeared from below deck a few minutes later carrying two plates of artfully arranged food. The meal looked like something that would be right at home on the cover of Bon Appetit.
“Wow. If this tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be in heaven.”
She meant it. Even though unmasking Logan’s qualifications in the kitchen would never earn her a Pulitzer, much less her editor’s forgiveness, it was hard not to admire a man who could whip up a five-star meal aboard a boat in the late afternoon heat and barely break a sweat as evidenced by his dry brow.
Logan settled onto the chair opposite hers. “Thanks.”
“Mmm. Heaven, definitely,” Mallory remarked after her first bite of the marinated meat. It melted in her mouth like butter. Afterward, she raised her glass. “I have to toast the chef. I’m impressed.”
“That’s quite a compliment coming from you. I get the feeling you’re not the type of woman who is quick with the accolades.”
“Only when they’re earned.”
He smiled and sipped his wine. After setting it aside, he said, “Then, I can’t wait until you taste the cinnamon apple torte I made for dessert.”
“That good?”
“Better,” he assured her with a wink that scored a direct hit on her libido. “Forget accolades. You just might be rendered speechless.”
“That would be a first.” She laughed. “But then, you’ve already proved you’re a man of many talents.”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to introducing you to another one of them later.”
Heat began to build again. “Oh?”
“The sail.” But Logan’s crooked smile told Mallory he knew exactly which direction her thoughts had taken and that he enjoyed knowing he could inspire such a detour.
As their meal progressed, the conversation veered—or was it steered?—to her personal life. Mallory didn’t like to talk about herself, but as a reporter she’d found that divulging a few details about her past often helped her sources loosen up. So, when he asked if she was a Chicago native, she told him, “No. Actually, I’m not a Midwestern girl at all. I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.”
“That explains the flattened vowels.” He smiled. “What brought you to Chicago?”
Nothing too personal here. So she said, “College. I attended Northwestern on a scholarship.”
“And then you were hired in at the Herald,” he assumed.
“Eventually. I spent the first three months after I graduated working gratis as an intern in the hope the editors would notice my work and offer me a full-time job. At the time, even though the Herald had no posted openings in its newsroom, competition in general was fierce.”
“You wanted to be sure you had a foot in the door. That was very industrious, if a bit risky.” Still, he nodded in appreciation. “What did your parents think of your decision to work for free?”
She sipped her wine. “It’s just my mom and she thought I’d lost my mind.”
“Why would she think that?”
Laughter scratched her throat. “I didn’t mean that literally, Doctor.”
“Good, because I’m not on the clock. Well?”
More than being direct, his gaze made her feel…safe. That brought heat of a different sort. She felt as if she could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge her the way her mother always had. And still did.
“My mother thought I was being a fool. She wanted me to be financially independent and she didn’t see how working for free was going to get me anywhere.”
“Reasonable goal,” he allowed.
“Yeah, except it was a mantra she beat me over the head with after my folks divorced.”
“I…I guess I thought your father was no longer around. When I asked what your folks thought, you said it was just your mom.”
“It is and has been.” She had to work to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “My dad’s not dead. He’s a deadbeat.”
“Ohh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. How old were you?”
“Eleven. My mother had been a stay-at-home mom with no marketable job skills when their marriage ended. She had a hard time finding work. She didn’t want me to wind up depending on a man.”
Mallory reached for her wine, if for no other reason than that taking a sip would shut her up. The only other person she’d ever mentioned this to was Vicki, her college roommate, and then only after a few too many margaritas.
Because she had a good idea what Logan must be thinking, she decided to say it first. “That’s not the reason I’m married to my job, though. I happen to really enjoy what I do.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He sipped his wine, too.
It was time to shift the conversation’s focus. “What about your family? Siblings?”
“One of each, both younger than me.”
“And your parents? Are they still together?” She knew that they were, but saying so would make it seem like she’d done a background check on him. Which she had.
“Yep.” Nostalgia warmed his smile. “They’re going on forty years and they still hold hands.”
The answer prompted a question she was only too happy to ask, since it would turn the spotlight away from her life. “And yet you’re thirty-six and single. Why is that?”
A shadow fell across his face, there and gone so quickly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But then he offered a disarming smile—a defense mechanism?—that made her all the more curious.
“I guess you could say after the apple fell, it rolled far away from the tree.”
This apple had, too, Mallory thought, stuffing memories of her childhood back into their cubbyhole. And for good reason in her case. But why would someone whose parents had what sounded like the perfect union be gun-shy when it came to commitment? It bore looking into. Later.
Now, she said, “Do your siblings still live in Chicago?”
She knew his parents did. The elder Bartholomews were no strangers to the newspaper’s society pages.
“Yes. My sister, Laurel, attends Loyola. She’s pushing thirty, has been taking classes for more than a decade and has yet to settle on a major. It drives my parents crazy. Luke, my brother, owns a restaurant.”
“Locally?”
He nodded. “The Berkley Grill just a few blocks up from Navy Pier.”
“I love that place!” Mallory exclaimed. “Especially the grilled portabella mushroom sandwich topped with provolone cheese.”
“That’s one of my favorites, too.”
“Is your brother a chef, then?” she asked.
“No. Like me he can hold his own in the kitchen, but he’s a businessman by trade, and he has a good eye for spotting potential.” His voice was tinged with pride. “The restaurant needed a fresh menu, updated dining room and better marketing to capitalize on tourist traffic. Since he bought it and made the upgrades, the place has done pretty well, even in this economy, and earned free publicity with a spot in a Food Network special.”
“Do you ever plug his place on your radio program?”
“That would be a conflict of interest and not terribly ethical. Besides, he doesn’t need my help.”
Mallory nodded.
His gaze narrowed. “Are you disappointed with my answer?”
“Of course not. Why would I be?”
He didn’t reply directly. Instead, he lobbed a question of his own. “What made you decide to become a journalist?”
“Curiosity,” she said again. “I like knowing why things happen the way they do. Why people make the choices they make. I’m rarely happy unless I’m getting to the bottom of things.”
“Then what were you doing covering today’s luncheon? Not much dirt to uncover there.”
“Penance,” Mallory muttered before she could think better of it.
She expected him to pounce on that, since getting to the bottom of things was one of the hallmarks of his profession, too. But just as he’d knocked her off balance with the offer of a sail, he surprised her now by changing the subject.
Rising from his seat he asked, “Are you ready for coffee and dessert?”
“Maybe just coffee.” She stood, as well, and helped him collect the dishes.
“A rain check on the dessert, then?”
Mallory liked the sound of that. It would give her an excuse to contact him again. Another chance to dig for a story that had to be in his past somewhere. “Okay.”
Five steps led from the sailboat’s deck to the cozy main cabin that was filled with the amenities Logan had mentioned. The small kitchen area boasted a sink, cooktop, oven, microwave and wood cabinetry that deserved points for both function and form. Upholstered benches flanked a table on the opposite wall. Further back was a comfortable seating area and a door that she guessed led to a bedroom, since the bathroom’s door was clearly marked with the word Head.
“This is nice,” she commented.
She meant it. Mallory didn’t know much about sailing. For that matter, she’d never been inside a boat like this one. But the glossy hardwood and soft-hued fabrics and upholstery were homey and inviting. The gentle swaying motion didn’t hurt, either.
“I like it.”
“This is an older boat, right?”
“She dates to the 1970s,” he agreed.
“She.” Her lips twisted.
Logan was grinning when he took the dishes from her hands and set them in the sink. “I’m guessing you consider it sexist that boats are referred to using female pronouns.”
“Not sexist necessarily. Just…annoying.”
“Right. From now on I’ll call my boat Bob,” he deadpanned. “Better?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He seems more like a Duke. Besides, it has a name.”
“Tangled Sheets.” He grinned and she fought the urge to fan herself.
“That’s an interesting name for a boat. One might even call it a bit risqué.”
