After That Night

She hadn’t meant to remind him of any earlier unpleasantness. To change the subject, she touched the top of her FTW file. “You know, I’m really not a journalist.”

“You’re not?” he replied with no attempt at all to sound sincere.

She pressed the file against her face, grimacing. “I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all you. Tell me I didn’t disgrace myself.”

“You didn’t. Regardless of the way it ended, I enjoyed it. I don’t think I’ve ever been interviewed in such an inventive manner.”

She turned her head to look at him, trying to read his features, trying to interpret the play of light and shadow on his face. The slight breeze had tossed his dark hair into a sexy, windblown tangle. She managed to swallow and find her voice.

“I’m an accountant,” she admitted. “A partner in the magazine, but a number cruncher at heart.” Briefly she explained why she’d been given the task of interviewing him, leaving out how desperately she’d tried to avoid the assignment in the first place. “Vic is going to scissor me up when I tell her there’s no article.”

“That’s hardly your fault.”

“True. Actually, I think it’s yours. We didn’t really get to finish the interview, you know.”

“I do business with several of the men that were on that list.” He touched the corner of her file. “One of them is about to announce his engagement to a very hot Hollywood actress. Maybe I could persuade him to give your magazine an exclusive.”

She halted abruptly. Turning, she looked at him in amazement. “Why would you do that for me? I mean, for us?”

“Because you’re right that we didn’t get to complete it. And because you deserve it,” he answered simply.

They traded a long, silent look. She had no idea what to say. A few people detoured around them. She must have swayed a little, because he stepped closer and took her arm.

When he pulled her into the stream of foot traffic and took her hand in his, she didn’t try to pull away. They continued to walk, hand in hand like lovers. The odd thing was how right and natural it felt.

Jenna’s senses were completely muddled now, afloat in rum-soaked, guilty delight. It wasn’t until they went through the revolving doors of the Belasco Hotel that she came suddenly back to earth.

“This is your hotel,” she said.

“Yes.”

Automatically she moved toward the direction of the hotel dining room. Mark steered her toward the elevators, instead. “Actually, I was thinking of my suite.”

She came to a dead stop and frowned up at him. “I can’t go up to your suite!”

“Why not? You were up there earlier.”

“That was different.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to feed you.”

“Oh.” She dropped her chin to her chest, thinking hard, then lifted her face to eye him with renewed suspicion. “No ulterior motives?”

“Not right now,” he said with a smile. He didn’t look a bit perturbed or offended. “Maybe later, after you’ve sobered up.”

“I’m not drunk. Pleasantly buzzed, maybe. But not drunk. So what’s wrong with going to a restaurant?”

“Nothing. Except…”

He glanced away, as though debating something, then turned back to her. “Look,” he said with a long sigh. “Believe it or not, upstairs is a dining room full of balloons, a huge spread of food, a waiter to serve everything and a chef who, by now, is no doubt pouting. Having dinner with me in my penthouse will probably save my life.”

Maybe she was more buzzed than she thought. None of his words made much sense. She settled on trying to sort through something easy. “Why do you have balloons in your dining room?”

“Because before this afternoon’s fiasco, Shelby had asked the hotel to plan a private dinner for the two of us. She evidently forgot to cancel it. Once I saw all the preparation going on, I just walked out. I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to celebrate anything. Then I found you. Now I’m thinking it would be a shame to see it go to waste.”

The idea of spending more time in Mark Bishop’s company held a lot of appeal. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it surrounded by a bunch of party decorations meant to celebrate the engagement of this man to another woman. “A celebration?”

“Actually—” he grinned, and for the first time looked a little embarrassed “—today is my birthday.”

Taken aback, she stated sternly, “It is not.”

His grin became almost wicked. “You’re right—you are a lousy journalist. Check your file,” he said, tapping the folder that was clutched back to her breast again. Somehow during the course of this conversation she’d lost his hand. “My birth date should be in there. Thirty-three today.”

Quickly she flipped open the file and found the date on the back of his picture. She gasped. “Oh, my gosh, it is! Happy birthday.”

He lifted her chin with one finger. She thought she saw amusement in the gray depths of his eyes—not at her, but at the situation, possibly even at himself. “Now will you come up? Save me from self-pity? Not to mention a chef with a bad attitude and a meat cleaver.”

How could she refuse such a charming appeal? Caution flew away like a bird let out of its cage. “When you put it that way…”

The penthouse dining room was just as he’d said. The table was surrounded in a sea of burgundy and blue balloons, gleaming with cutlery and china that was finer than anything Jenna had ever seen, much less eaten from. The waiter snapped to attention the moment they walked in, and a few moments after Mark entered the kitchen, Jenna heard him calming the temperamental chef.

Trays of artfully arranged hors d’oeuvres covered the coffee table in the living room. From the look on her face, Mark must have realized how little she wanted to be part of Shelby’s elaborate plans for a celebration. He wisely suggested they skip the formal dinner and have a champagne picnic on the terrace. Jenna went outside, settled into one of the comfortable chairs at the patio table and kicked off her shoes.

A few minutes later Mark appeared with two huge plates in hand, followed by the waiter. In no time, a champagne bucket, place mats, glasses and cutlery were added to the table. The waiter disappeared behind the glass doors without a word.

The moonlight was sweetly romantic, but not very illuminating. While Mark popped the cork of the champagne, Jenna tried to make out what he’d brought her. Oysters still on their shell. Caviar-stuffed celery that she wrinkled her nose at. The rest was a mystery. Pretty to look at, but a little too fancy for her tastes.

Mark pointed to the various delicacies. “Citrus salmon. Red-curry braised duck. Crabmeat on avocado. Squab liver pâté.” He frowned, catching sight of her still-empty plate. “What’s the matter?”

“I make it a habit never to eat anything my cat would fight me for.”

He laughed and speared a marinated shrimp on his fork. “Let’s start with something simple and work our way up.”

They ate, sharing and comparing, and eventually Jenna’s nerves settled. Mark had a quality of quiet self-containment that made him easy to be with. They talked about everything and nothing, even the challenges she faced with her overprotective family. He didn’t try to force his opinions on her—a refreshing change from her relatives.

The Rum Blasters had worn off. She’d had only one glass of champagne, and she was pleased to see that he didn’t try to press more on her. It occurred to her that she’d told this man far too much about herself.

They both settled into a companionable silence and gazed up at the night sky. The moon was a pale, watery disk. Jenna had slid down in her cushioned seat and her bare feet were propped on an empty chair. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, savoring the moment, feeling relaxed.

“Do you want to move closer to the railing?” Mark asked from beside her.

She turned her head back and forth against the back of the chair. “Afraid of heights,” she said.

“That explains why you were plastered against the penthouse wall when I met you this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t plastered against the wall. I just don’t see any reason to get close to the edge of anything. Nothing dramatic in my past. I just don’t like being up high and looking down.”

“What else should I know about you?”

She met his gaze. “I’m an open book.”

“With a couple of pages missing.” He reached to spear a Spanish olive with his fork, then extended it toward her. “Last one. Want it?”

Without taking the fork from him, without thinking, she leaned forward and closed her mouth around the olive. She saw that Mark’s eyes suddenly glittered with desire. The heat in his look made her toes curl. She hadn’t meant her action to send a sexual message, but it was too late to worry about that now. She took another breath and tried to calm the panic that stitched up her spine.

Inspiration struck. “Oh, I got you a birthday present.” She swung her arm in his direction, and he laughed when he saw the jar of macadamia nuts in her hand. “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

“I’ll treasure these always,” he said playfully. “I know you share them only with special people.”

“That’s right,” she agreed, filled with a pleasant silliness. “Don’t forget it. They’re a unique gift from a unique person.” Someone who remembers how to have fun.

“A very special person,” Mark agreed softly.

She found herself locked in his all-consuming gaze. He didn’t seem to be breathing. She knew she wasn’t.

The need to kiss him rose in her like a powerful thirst, and he must have seen it, because in the next moment he leaned forward, lowered his head and placed his mouth against hers, very gently. At some point during their picnic he’d eaten an orange, and his lips were flavored with it now. He stroked his tongue along the seam of her mouth, soft and curious, slow and suggestive. He didn’t touch any other part of her, but blood rushed through her as though she could feel him everywhere.

She couldn’t have said how long the kiss lasted. Short enough to make her want more. Long enough to make her realize she was perilously close to tripping over the edge and sliding down a very steep slope.

Mark sat back. He stared at her, and she knew he didn’t regret a single moment. Come to think of it, neither did she.

“Jenna…”

Traces of heat lightning zigzagged across the Manhattan sky. A sudden breeze made Jenna shiver.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost midnight.”

Her father’s storm warning. Right on time. He’d be worried about her flight tomorrow. He always worried. His good little Jenny-girl. What would he think to see her now? Ready to make love to a man she hadn’t even known twenty-four hours ago.

Oh, Lord, what am I doing? This wasn’t like her. She was the kind of person marriage had been invented for, and Mark…well, Mark wasn’t. He was probably used to having women throw themselves at him. She’d been begging to be kissed, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. But it would be foolish to take this lovely interlude any further. It was midnight. Pumpkin time.

“I have to go,” she said.

She pulled her feet out of the chair and stood, snatching up her shoes and jacket.

“You don’t have to,” Mark said, coming to his feet, as well.

“I do. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. I didn’t mean…” She realized she was starting to babble and stopped, void of explanations that would make any sense even to herself.

She pulled the sliding glass doors wide and passed quickly through the suite, Mark close on her heels. She plunged her arm into one of her jacket sleeves, missed and tried again just as Mark came up behind her in the foyer.

Mark settled one of the sleeves up over her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to what, Jenna? Let me kiss you?”

“Yes. No! What I mean to say is, I liked it. Too much.”

“So did I. So stay here. Let’s find out what else we have in common.”

Dammit! Why wouldn’t her jacket cooperate? She fished around in it awkwardly, finally finding the second sleeve and shrugging into it. She turned to face Mark. “I can’t. I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl.”

His brow furrowed as he stiffened a little. “Do you think that’s the way I would treat you?”

“No. Well, yes, probably.” She took a deep breath. “I just think that where that kiss was heading is someplace that’s a lot easier for you than it is for me. My life is very structured. Very simple. Very sane. Some people even find me boring. Ask Lauren, she’ll tell you.”

She finished yanking her jacket into place, then realized she was still barefoot. She pulled one shoe on, but the other refused to slip into place. She took a couple of ungraceful hops. “Damn! I hate these shoes.”

“I don’t care what Lauren thinks. Or anyone else. I don’t find you boring at all. I think you’re one of the most intriguing women I’ve met in a long time.”

Her attention swung away from her shoe and back to his face. “For a man who claims not to believe in romance, you’re very good at it.”

She was losing her balance. Mark reached out to steady her, his hands on both her shoulders. “Will you stand still? Let’s talk about this.”

She wobbled on one foot for a moment, then steadied. She should have known he wouldn’t make this easy for her. Her mind was a jumble of guilt and confusion and embarrassment, and Mark wasn’t willing to play fair. Forget nice and friendly. His hands were quiet on her shoulders, but his thumbs were massaging the base of her throat, and that touch was so warm. Supple. Alive.

She shook her head. “Stop that. It’s not going to work.”

Now his hands did move. Up her neck in a gentle, whispery caress. Cupping the base of her skull so that her head was drawn upward and back, and his fingers stroked pulse points that had been sleeping for years.

Unfair! Jenna wanted to cry. Stop! But the words simply wouldn’t come.

He gave her a long, speculative appraisal from beneath his lashes. His tender smile had a melting effect on her insides. “You realize, of course, if you go now, you’ll never find out.”

“Find out what?” she asked. Her voice sounded detached and foreign.

His mouth widened into a grin. “Whether it’s boxers or briefs.”

She stared at him in mute misery. The dark, heavy truth descended on her in full force and without mercy. She might as well acknowledge the terrible inevitability of this moment, that something was breaking, breaking like a cord, in her mind….

Jenna nodded slowly. “You’re right, damn you. I have to know.”

She tossed the remaining shoe over one shoulder. By the time it hit the floor, she’d put her arms around Mark’s neck and pulled him to her. She kissed him, thoroughly. And he responded.

If this was a mistake, she’d find a way to make it right somehow. And if there were regrets, she’d never lay claim to them. A premonition of danger flared at the edges of her mind, but her body was already on a wild journey now, and the feeling didn’t last long enough to become a nuisance.

CHAPTER FIVE

THINGS HAD HAPPENED pretty much as Jenna expected when she and Lauren returned to Atlanta. They called Vic in California, giving her the bad news that the interview with Mark Bishop was a bust. Their friend had been so thoroughly immersed in talking sense into her little sister that she hadn’t been able to give it much attention.

But now, a week later, Vic was back. Disappointed and annoyed. Ready to hear the full story. Eager to find out if there was anything that could be salvaged. Lauren and Jenna, seated in Vic’s plush office chairs, had just given her all the details.

Well, not all the details, Jenna admitted. Some things just weren’t meant to be shared with anyone. Even your best friends and business partners.

Victoria Estabrook’s disheartened sigh cut into Jenna’s musings. In the merciless sunlight pouring through the glass windows of the office, Vic’s expression was crestfallen. “So you just dropped the interview and left?” she repeated as though she couldn’t have heard correctly. “Without even trying to find out what was in that prenup to make Shelby Elaine go nuts?”

“We couldn’t ask,” Jenna said. “It wasn’t appropriate to intrude. And certainly it was none of our business.”

“Of course it’s none of our business,” Vic agreed with an incredulous snort. “But it’s newsworthy. Readers have a right to know.”

Jenna frowned. “Our readers want to know where to buy wedding gowns that are designer knockoffs and what kind of mother-in-law gift costs ten bucks but looks like a hundred. I seriously doubt they care about Mark Bishop’s prenup agreement.”

Lauren, who had been polishing one of her camera lenses, stopped long enough to grab Vic’s attention. “Maybe you could find out more from Debra Lee.”

Vic nodded thoughtfully and rifled through her Rolodex. “She might be willing to talk.”

“I think we should consider it a dead issue,” Jenna got out with some desperation. After everything that had happened, she was eager to see the incident—including her part in it—put well behind them.

“Maybe by now they’ve patched things up,” Lauren suggested.

“That’s not going to happen,” Jenna said. When Lauren gave her a mildly surprised look, she realized she’d sounded too vehement. More reasonably she added, “I mean, Shelby looked very distraught and determined to put an end to the engagement.”

“She could rethink it,” Lauren said.

Seated behind her desk, Vic rested her chin on her hands. “Well, right now we still seem to be short one article. Any suggestions?”

Lauren lobbed a few ideas, but nothing that seemed to solve the dilemma. Jenna mostly sat back in her chair and listened. She’d brought the latest company expense reports to this meeting to go over, and she fingered the edge of the file lovingly. Numbers were so wonderfully cut-and-dried. So finite. As a partner in FTW, why couldn’t she have stayed firmly behind the scenes, instead of getting pulled into these kinds of discussions? They always seemed to underscore how completely unimaginative she was when it came to brainstorming.

Although…

She remembered the conversation she’d had with Mark that night on the sidewalk. He’d promised to help the magazine get an interview with one of the other eligible bachelors. Considering how their night together had ended and subsequent events, it seemed very unlikely now that he would help her. But he might be willing to talk to Vic.

She cleared her throat, and both her friends glanced her way. “Supposedly number eight on the list is about to pop the question to some Hollywood actress,” she said. “We could contact him. See if he’d give us the story.”

“How do you know this?” Vic asked, and already Jenna could see the wheels turning in her head.

“Mark Bishop told me,” Jenna said without thinking.

Lauren frowned at her. “When did he tell you that?”

Jenna realized her mistake instantly. “I’m sure I heard him mention it,” Jenna said with a shrug. “Or maybe it was Debra Lee.” Think, Jenna. Don’t just sit there! “What time is your flight to New Zealand, Lauren? I’d be so excited about this assignment. Aren’t you?”

She ducked her head, certain that the furious blush creeping up her neck would give her away. Lauren was too sharp not to wonder just when that information had passed between the two of them without her hearing it.

Luckily, just then Vic’s secretary interrupted to say Lauren had a phone call from one of the magazines she regularly contributed to. Lauren wanted to take it in her office, which was only a couple of doors down, leaving Jenna and Vic alone.

Jenna was about to leave the office when it occurred to her that, since Vic’s return, she hadn’t mentioned the problem with her sister, Cara, at all. She turned back to her friend. “Is everything all right? How did it go with Cara?”

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