Seducing His Heart Page 11

  She keeps changing the subject. What’s going on? “Rory, are you okay?” Bess put her hand on her friend’s arm.

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re not yourself. You’re jumpy and keep changing the subject.”

  “I’ve got some things on my mind I’d like to forget.”

  “Oh, okay. Nothing too Earth-shattering?”

  “I hope not,” Rory mumbled.

  The two women walked and talked for forty minutes.

  “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.” The women guided the dogs back to the building.

  “Coffee?” Bess asked.

  “You having some?”

  “I’m freezing. Yeah.”

  “Count me in.”

  Bess made coffee and put out two pieces of coffee cake from a new recipe she’d created.

  “Pistachio coffee cake?”

  “Yeah. Not my best idea, but I don’t want to throw it out.”

  Rory laughed. “So, you feed it to me. Makes sense.” Rory took a bite. “I actually like it.”

  “Good. Want to take the rest home to Hack?”

  Rory put up her hands in protest as the buzzer sounded.

  “Must be Whit. Crap. He’ll be upset I missed the news.”

  “Not this time,” Rory muttered. Bess stared at her friend as she went to the door. Dumpling and Homer, barking up a storm, followed her. Rory leashed Baxter.

  When Bess opened the door, Whit rushed in. Homer jumped on his leg, trying to reach his master’s face to lick a greeting. The broadcaster’s brow was furrowed. He petted Homer then eased him away, worry gathered in his eyes.

  “Sorry, I missed your broadcast.” She stretched up to kiss him. “Rory stopped over, and we had to take the dogs out…”

  He put his hand on her arm. “That’s okay. No problem.”

  Rory and Baxter came to the door. “Time for me to go,” Rory said.

  “Thank you.” Whit nodded to Rory.

  “No problem.”

  Before Bess could form a question, her friend and Baxter were gone. Whit closed the door behind him. He went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of brandy, took down two glasses, and filled them.

  “What’s going on?” Her pulse began to race. Something’s up. And it isn’t good.

  “Sit down, Bess,” Whit said, carrying the drinks to the sofa.

  “What’s happened? Something…something bad has happened?” Her breath hitched in her chest.

  “Sit.” He put one glass on the coffee table and took a swig from the other.

  “Oh my God. What is it?” Chills ran up her arms, and tears clouded her eyes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Bess…I…”

  “Spit it out,” she said, squeezing his arm.

  “There was a car bomb, an explosion, today. Someone was killed…”

  “Who? Who?”

  He held up his hand. “A cop.”

  She gasped, taking in a huge amount of air. “No, no, not Terry? Not Terry. Tell me, tell me, Whit, tell me it wasn’t Terry.”

  “I can’t.”

  Through the tears, she saw the pain on his face. “Please, God, tell me it wasn’t Terry!”

  “It was. It was Terry. He was killed.”

  “Oh my God! No, no, no, no, no, no…” She got up and paced back and forth in front of the window, shaking her head and repeating the word ‘no’ over and over again.

  Whit cut her off, grasping her arms with his hands. “Stop, stop. It’s true. I’m so sorry, Bess, so sorry.” His soft words broke into her consciousness. Emotion erupted through her like lava through a volcano. Adrenaline pumped, and she could hardly breathe. Looking into his eyes, she knew the truth.

  Bess fell against his chest, sobbing, her knees buckling. He tightened his arms around her, holding her up and letting her cry. Her throat closed and tears streamed down her face, onto his suit jacket. Nausea hit her stomach as she gulped for air. She pushed away from him and ran to the bathroom, where she threw up three times.

  “Are you all right? Bess? Open up.”

  She hugged the cold, porcelain bowl, propping herself up. Her head rested on her wrist. She cooled her forehead on the rim. As soon as her breathing became regular, she pushed up on shaky legs.

  “Bess! Answer me!” Whit called in.

  “I’m okay,” her weak voice replied. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and rinsed her mouth. Then, she closed the toilet and sank down, waiting until the strength to stand returned to her legs.

  “Please, open up.”

  She looked at the door, her eyes focused on the lock. She leaned forward and clicked it open. Whit entered. She gazed up at him with puffy, swollen eyes.

  “Oh, baby,” he said softly. He lifted her by her arms and walked her back to the living room. Easing her down on the sofa next to him, he held her and stroked her hair.

  Strength had bled out of her body. She could barely lift her arm.

  “Drink this.” Whit held the snifter to her lips.

  She took a sip and choked at first then it went down nice and smooth, warming her inside. “What happened?” she asked.

  “It was the lead story. I couldn’t get Sam to quash it until tomorrow.”

  “So, that’s why Rory came?”

  “I called her. She’s a good friend. I wanted to be here when you found out.”

  She cast a small smile at him. How sweet. She touched his cheek. He held up the brandy, and she took another dose. She began to relax. “Please, tell me everything.”

  Whit went through the details with her. Bess cried several times. She finished her drink and lay down on the sofa. He covered her with an afghan. Dumpling jumped up and curled up at Bess’s feet. She was asleep in minutes.

  * * * *

  Whit walked the length of Bess’s apartment several times, trying to figure out what to do. She’s so upset, she must still love him. That’s good, right? Then, she won’t fall for me. We can go on the way we are without her wanting to commit. How long can you love a dead man? What am I thinking? This is awful for her. She needs me. I need to do something. Think, think!

  He plopped down on the sofa. Homer joined Whit, sitting at his feet and giving out one bark. The dogs! That’s it. Whit grabbed both leashes and picked up Dumpling, who seemed glued to Bess’s leg. He headed for the elevator. A nice, long walk. Perfect!

  When he hit the street, he directed the pugs to the park. The weather was cloudy and chilly, but not cold. The brisk exercise warmed him up quickly. As he headed for the Great Lawn, he thought about his life.

  She’s so close to the perfect woman. But if she’s still in love with Terry, there’s no room for me. That’s fine. I’m leaving soon, anyway. Good thing. Get away before I make another mistake. Bess is so tempting. He thought about her luscious body and her soft lips. His lips tingled as he remembered their last kiss.

  The pull to spend all his spare time at her apartment was strong. Whit could barely resist his desire to be close to her, and when he smelled something delectable in the air, his stomach forced him to ring her bell. She welcomed him. Although Ned had recovered and resumed taster duties, Bess respected Whit’s appraisals of her concoctions as well.

  He liked feeling important to the accomplished baker. He’d never been part of a woman’s working life, except for the few times he’d screwed up and had an affair with one of his producers. Angie, Beth…what disasters. He’d quickly learned to resist sleeping with women at the station, no matter how attractive they were.

  Everything about Bess was new to him—her baking, her devotion to her dog, and her kindness. He had sought her company, though they had talked about remaining only friends. He chuckled. That didn’t last long. Their chemistry had gotten in the way. Resisting temptation had never been one of his strong suits, especially when it came to women.

  Why should he? It’s not like he treated his women badly. He took them out to nice places, called when he said he would, showed up on time, and of
fered genuine compliments with his bouquets of roses. The fact that his heart was well guarded and never available didn’t slow down the parade of women willing to warm his bed.

  He parked his butt on a bench while Homer zeroed in on one tree that needed a thorough sniffing. Dumpling jumped up to join him and curled around in a circle, pressing up against Whit’s hip. She snorted once and shut her eyes. His hand draped over her, caressing her soft fur.

  Bess is different. Is that good? Maybe, maybe not. Whit had been careful to pursue young, serious, career women, who didn’t have marriage and babies on their minds. Models were perfect. The only compromise he’d made was in their body type. He’d always preferred women with more meat on their bones. But if these women were safer, he’d forego the pleasure of a bit more to love.

  As he approached forty, he realized his appeal to younger women was fading. But being a well-known broadcaster kept him in demand. Life was good. Great job. All the women I want. Terrific apartment. Perfect dog. Perfect life. I’m the envy of most men my age. He told himself how lucky he was every day when he looked in the mirror.

  Then, why did he get so depressed at holidays? Why did he linger while walking past a playground, captivated by the joyous shrieks of small children? If he was so happy, why did he have to convince himself of it?

  Dumpling changed position. Whit’s phone rang. Jeff. “Hey, how you doin’?” he asked his big brother.

  “Great. It’s you I’m worried about. Have you called that therapist, yet?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve been pretty busy.”

  Jeff ignored the answer. “You don’t have to tell anyone you’re going.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. I have a pretty good life.”

  “Do you, Whit? You can’t commit to a woman, and you stubbornly refuse to even consider creating the family we never had. You call that happy?”

  “I’ve lived this long without a traditional family. I’m used to it.”

  “What’s good about being used to being alone?”

  “Absence of pain. Besides, I tried it once. Gemma. Remember?”

  “Yeah, what a bad choice.”

  “Thank you for your support.” Whit frowned.

  “Maybe if you got some therapy, you’d make a better choice and have what you want.”

  “Thanks, Jeff. I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s better than I usually get from you.”

  “Anything to get you off my back.”

  “Fine. Be an asshole. You used to listen to me. Guess your job’s gone to your head.”

  “Jeff, I—” But his brother had hung up.

  Is he right? Whit had always relied on Jeff, the only steady, positive influence in his life. Jeff was rarely wrong. He addressed Dumpling. “Should I believe him? Call the doctor? Am I nuts, Dumpling?”

  The pug opened her eyes and gave him a cold stare.

  “You’re no help,” Whit said. A ding from his phone drew his attention.

  Here’s the number. 212-752-2214

  Dr. Richard Sumner. Call him. Now.

  Whit chuckled and turned toward the dog nestled next to him. “Okay, okay. He wins.”

  He dialed. A machine answered. “This is Whitfield Bass. My brother, Jeff Bass, referred me to you. I’d like to set up an appointment.” Whit left his number then stowed his cell in his back pocket and pushed to his feet. Dumpling whined. Whit bent down, and she licked his face. “Nice to know you approve.”

  He picked up the leashes and headed back to The Wellington. A small sense of relief flashed through him for a moment, making him smile. Maybe Jeff’s right.

  “Bess might be awake by now and wondering where you are, Dumpling. Let’s go.”

  The pugs trotted along, leading the way. They’re smart. They know where we’re going. Whit smiled and gave his head a slight shake. Dogs are amazing. He exchanged a greeting with Crash as they made their way through the lobby on the way to the elevator.

  Once they were in Bess’ apartment, Dumpling ran over to the sofa and jumped up. She licked Bess’ face until the blonde was awake.

  “You’re up?”

  “Am now. Thanks, Dumpling.” Bess rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms to the ceiling.

  “We went to the park. How are you feeling?” He sat on a chair next to the couch.

  “I’m a little better.”

  “Feel like getting up? Going to dinner?”

  “I don’t know if I could face eating out…a restaurant.”

  “How about we order in? Chinese?”

  Bess looked groggy. Her natural sparkle and energy had drained from her like air from a balloon. She moved in slow motion, swinging her legs over the edge and pushing to her feet. A stumble threatened to throw her to the ground, but Whit caught her before she fell.

  “Guess my legs aren’t quite ready.”

  “No worries.” He guided her to the table. “Coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” she said, attempting to stand.

  Whit gently pushed down on her shoulder. “I’ll do it. Sit.”

  She watched him handle her fancy machine. He brought milk and poured two mugs. Bess sipped the hot brew and slipped her hand over his fingers. He looked at her with a warm smile.

  “Thank you so much for being here.”

  “Of course. Where else would I be? Now, what do you feel like eating?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “How about…some egg drop soup and a couple of dumplings.”

  Dumpling barked at the mention of her name. Bess and Whit chuckled. Homer woofed along. Bess laughed so hard, she cried. Her body shook, and tears poured down her cheeks. Whit opened his cell and placed their order.

  “I want to go to the funeral. Do you know when and where it is?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll be covering it. I can give you a lift in the van.”

  “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Why not? You can’t go alone. You’re coming with me.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled.

  After dinner, Whit tucked her into bed and cleaned up the kitchen. He walked the dogs again then undressed and slipped in next to Bess. If I leave my boxers on, maybe I can resist making love to her. She needs to sleep. He cuddled up behind, spooning her. She moaned without waking up. He folded her into his embrace and closed his eyes.

  A couple of hours later, he awoke with a start. The funeral. Will it be safe? Terry was murdered. Is Bess safe? If this was a hit, will she be next?

  Chapter Nine

  The van stopped adjacent to the path to Officer McNeil’s grave to let Bess out first. Whit followed. They walked up the grass toward the mound of dirt next to the casket. The funeral had been closed, but the family had opened the burial to friends and the press. Bess wore a midnight blue, shimmery silk dress. She covered it with an elegant, lightweight, cream-colored, wool coat. Even a heavy layer of makeup didn’t disguise the pale cast to her skin. Her eyes were slightly swollen and her nose pink, which she discovered when she looked in her pocket mirror.

  Whit wore a black suit and dark gold tie. He looks gorgeous, even dressed for a burial. She wanted to hold his hand, but knew it was inappropriate. He’s working. I should keep my distance. Don’t embarrass him. Be professional. No one knows about Terry and me. Be quiet. Blend in.

  She followed her own advice and trudged up the hill to where some men in uniform stood next to Terry’s family and friends. A woman with a tear-streaked face, who looked like she hadn’t slept in days, approached.

  Whit stepped forward, introduced himself and shook her hand. “Mrs. McNeil?”

  “Mona,” the woman replied.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Whit said.

  Bess looked for an empty chair. Before she could become part of the crowd, Mona picked her out. She stepped forward. “I’m Mona, Terry’s wife. Who are you?” No hand was offered. Instead, Mona rested her fists on her hips.

  Bess felt the color drain from her face. “Bess Cooper. You’re his w
ife? I thought he was divorced.”

  “Almost divorced. Separated. You his girlfriend?” The question in her eyes hardened into hostility, making Bess’s blood run cold.

  “We were friends.”

  “Yeah? I’ll bet. Friends with benefits?” Mona narrowed her eyes. Her gaze swept over Bess, making her feel naked.

  She pulled her coat tighter around her. “Only friends.”

  “You never slept with Terry?” Mona arched an eyebrow.

  Bess shook her head, avoiding Whit’s gaze.

  Mona’s mouth set into a firm line. “I’ll bet. Figured he’d end up with someone like you,” she muttered.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” Whit said, leading Mona away from Bess, who searched for a seat and sank into it heavily.

  Married? He said he was divorced. Was he lying? Guess so. Almost divorced? Is that where he was on Saturday nights? She shuddered at the thought that he’d been lying to her all along. Couldn’t be. Even she said they were almost divorced. Isn’t that the same thing?

  The cameraman and soundman followed Whit. She couldn’t hear the questions and answers, so she turned her attention to the crowd. There were at least thirty people, most in blue police uniforms. A few came up to her and asked her how she knew Terry, and she gave them the line about being friends.

  “Glass of water, miss?” An officer handed Bess a paper cup along with a warm smile.

  Is he coming on to me…at a funeral? “Thanks.” She took it and sipped, moving her gaze away from him.

  Before he could continue with the conversation, Mona was on her way back. Whit and the crew trailed behind. The stormy expression on the widow’s face warned Bess that it was time to leave. She pushed to her feet and turned toward the van. But Mona kept coming. She caught up to the pretty baker and tugged on her arm.

  “I know you! You’re that chef slut,” Mona said in a voice too loud for the occasion. All heads turned to look.

  “What?” Bess’s eyes grew wide.

  “No, no, not chef. Uh…uh…baking! Yeah, that’s it. Baking with Bess. That’s you. You had your claws in my husband, you fucking bitch. And now he’s dead.” Mona slapped Bess across the face.