Seducing His Heart Page 7
“Jean Louis, this is Whitfield Bass. Whit, Jean Louis.”
The chef gave a curt nod to Whit and turned his attention back to Bess. “I will gladly pick up your bill if you will only share your recipe for the Mocha Magic cake with me,” he said, his eyes glowing with mischief.
Bess wagged a finger at him. “Uh, uh, Jean. You know I can’t do that.”
“But it looks so wonderful! I need the formula. I want to serve it here. I promise to call it Bess Cooper’s Mocha Magic Cake.”
“Nope. Sorry,” she said, shaking her head.
“Perhaps, Monsieur Bass, you can reason with her?”
“This lady has a mind of her own, I’m afraid,” Whit replied.
Frowning, Jean Louis bowed again and was gone. Whit chuckled. “You sure have him around your little finger.” The busboy cleared their empty plates away.
“He’s always asking for my recipes.”
“Ever date him?”
“Jean Louis? He’s probably married with five kids.”
“Not all desirable man are married.” He opened the dessert menu.
“Right. Some are only interested in friendship,” she quipped, raising an eyebrow.
“Or friends with benefits.”
“A concept invented by men like you.”
“Men like me? What am I like?”
“Want the milk and never, ever plan to buy the cow…uncommitted for life.”
“Got me there. How about dessert?”
The waiter appeared, pen in hand.
“I’m full. But you go ahead.”
“How could I enjoy something sweet without you joining me?” His stare burned her skin.
“Not tonight. I’ve eaten enough.”
“Watching your weight?”
“Trying not to overdo it.”
“You look fine to me. Great, in fact.” His gaze traveled over her torso and back, making her feel topless.
“Only coffee, if you don’t mind,” she said, hoping the dim lighting would cover her blush.
“Coffee for the lady, and Espresso for me,” Whit said, closing the dessert menu.
Conversation over hot drinks turned to lighter topics. Whit discussed his problems with his producer, and Bess bemoaned the rigorous demands of hers. They traveled home and parted in the hall after Whit embraced her and kissed her on the cheek. This feels stupid after our hot time together. But hey, if it’s what he wants.
Dumpling barked as Bess entered the apartment. She leashed the small dog and immediately took her for her nighttime walk.
* * * *
Whit closed the door and yanked at his tie. God, I hate these things. He pulled it off and unbuttoned his shirt. Can’t believe I’m getting undressed alone after a dinner like that. She’s so hot, but off limits. She wants it all. Marriage. He pictured a messy house with screaming infants, toddlers running wild, pots overflowing on the stove, and Bess long gone. A shiver ran through him. No way!
He took off his clothes and sat in T-shirt and boxers in his living room with the newspaper and a glass of brandy. After skimming the headlines for anything new and finding nothing, he put it down. Saw it all at the station.
An image of a beautiful, buxom Bess in an immaculate house, holding a gorgeous, golden-haired infant danced through his head. She was beaming, her blonde hair shining. He entered to a big welcome from her and the baby, who cooed and smiled at him. Bess gave him a sexy kiss and put the child to bed. He envisioned a romantic dinner for two in their cozy home and an amazing strip tease by her afterward before he jerked back to reality. He laughed at himself.
Was Bess right? Do I want the family I never had? Maybe. If I could get a guarantee. If a wife could swear she’d never leave or die before her time. That might be different. But that’ll never happen. Besides, who could live with a confirmed bachelor like me?
He snorted once and grinned. After washing up, he stretched out on his king-sized bed, folded his arms behind his head, and stared out his floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon was full. The lights of Manhattan twinkled at him, mocking him, shining out from hundreds of thousands of homes, many with families. His mind wandered to the apartment next door.
Is she in bed? What does she sleep in? What color was her underwear tonight? Was it lace? Did she wear a thong? Is she naked and alone right now? He couldn’t stop thinking about her and fell asleep wondering how it would feel to make love to Bess.
In the morning, Whit arose at six, showered, dressed, and grabbed a bowl of cereal with his coffee before heading to work early. Though he wasn’t expected until noon, he often showed up before then to work on his book or write a few freelance stories for publication in magazines. His producer didn’t object, and he had all the services of the station at his disposal. He was all business, listening to the news on the radio to get a jumpstart on his day.
At seven thirty, he opened the door. Bess doesn’t take Dumpling out until eight. He glanced at her door and smiled. He had enjoyed talking to her at dinner. She was a better listener than any other women he had dated. Models, always so full of themselves. Steer the conversation around to them, their next job, who stole the cover of Cosmo from under their nose, and what clothes they’ve bought. Damn boring.
When he entered the studio, the place was buzzing. Seemed as if there had been a big fire in Brooklyn, a shooting in Newark, and the whisper of a scandal in the police department. Whit greeted his fellow workers and settled down at his desk. As an on-air person, he had a small office with a door instead of a cubicle. His phone rang.
“Pickford Williams, here,” came the introduction when he answered.
“Hey, Pick. What’s up?”
“Hey, Whit. How many women d’you fuck this week?”
“We’re not at the fraternity house, Pick. I never kiss and tell.”
“Who’s talking about kissing?”
Whit laughed. “What’s up? Any news on the job?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh. Thought you were interested in my sex life.”
“I’m interested in having a sex life like yours myself. Never happen. I’m only the editor-in-chief of New York News Review, not a hot broadcaster, like you.”
“Cut the pity party.”
“Okay, okay. Charlie, our guy in Asia, is retiring. The job opens up in a few months. I’d like to send you there a couple weeks early so he can introduce you to his contacts. You have to move slowly in Asia. Protocol, manners, who you know, and all that bullshit. Will you be ready in a few weeks?”
“Damn straight. Perfect timing.” Get out of New York before I fall for Bess.
“Okay. I’m writing your name in pen. I’ll get you a letter when I have a firm date. Okay?’
“Dream come true. Thanks, Pick.”
“Don’t thank me. Do a fucking great job.”
Whit had applied for the position six months earlier. After his disappointment with Gemma, he’d known he’d have to leave New York. Too many temptations here. He’d been waiting for this call, biding his time, keeping the opposite sex at arm’s length—not always an easy task. Lately, it had become almost impossible, with the luscious Bess on the same floor. Why wasn’t he more elated?
I’ll pop the champagne when I get the letter. Until then, anything can happen. Pick can go down in a plane. Best not to celebrate until I have the offer in writing. He pushed the feeling of disappointment out of his mind and heart and conferred with his producer, Samantha Jones.
“Usual bullshit, Whit, protestors at the mayor’s office—parents up in arms with the School’s Chancellor. That fire in Brooklyn netted a couple of local heroes, at least one in the fire department. Two firemen hospitalized. Police are investigating the shooting of a kid robbing a bodega in Newark. Some tip about police corruption. Same old, same old,” she fired off.
“You’re jaded,” he said.
“Been doing this too long, I guess. Everything’s covered except this.”
“Police corruption?”
“I’ll follow up anyway.” Whit took it back to his desk.
He got nowhere with the informer and shelved the task as other, more urgent stories poured in. It was November first, and he couldn’t believe how many newsworthy things were happening in New York City. As fast as people dropped printed copies of emails and Associated Press wires in his inbox, he organized each into a thirty-second story and typed it up. Copyboys picked up his printed stories and delivered them to Sam.
Whit and Sam had bumped heads right from the start. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was a flirtation thing. He wasn’t at all attracted to her and worried it might hurt him on the job. But then, as he had observed the nasty way she treated others, he had discovered she was plain mean. He tried to avoid her to make his day more pleasant, but before each broadcast, they had to come together. That’s when the fighting always began.
Whit wanted to do human interest angles, and Sam couldn’t care less about people. She was all for splashing scandals across the screen, and not above embellishing a few, if necessary. “Scandals bring viewers, Bass, not that bullshit, crap you write,” she had once announced at the top of her lungs. She didn’t give a damn who was humiliated, as long as she got her way.
The ratings were pretty steady, tending to back up her theory. But Whit’s stories drew letters and phone calls, convincing him people were watching. He cringed every time he walked into Sam’s office. Not for much longer, Ms. Number One Bitch. Soon, I’ll be overseas, and you’ll only be an unpleasant memory.
After his broadcast, Whit loosened his tie and closed his office door. Once again, he dialed the tipster with the info about police corruption. This time he made a connection and quietly scribbled down the information while the person on the other end of the wire talked. He placed his hand-written notes in the top drawer of his desk and locked it. Then, he grabbed his jacket and headed home.
A Philly cheesesteak and a beer from the deli made his mouth water as he went up in the elevator. The smell of something buttery baking tempted his nose, switching his taste buds from meaty to sweet. Wonder what she’s making over there. Will I get a chance to sample it?
He plopped down at the small, round table in his spacious kitchen and unwrapped his food. Sifting through the mail while he ate, he saw a postcard from a real estate agent in Rye, New York. Damn! The stone cottage. He flipped it over to read the other side. It suggested he put the place on the market.
He smiled ruefully as his mind drifted back to the day he had bought the place. It was exactly what he’d always wanted—quaint, old, sturdy, and located near the water in Rye, a small, charming town on the Long Island Sound. It was near enough to the city, so he could be at the studio in less than an hour in an emergency. It was perfect.
The house had two stories, three bedrooms—plenty of room for a wife and children. A half-smile stretched his lips. Gemma Timmons, top model. He’d been dating her for a year. Had it been love? He wasn’t sure, though he had spent a ton of time with her. She had catered to him. Anything he had wanted was okay with her, in the bedroom or the kitchen. Yeah, a model who could cook. And she had said she wanted marriage.
Whit had decided to ignore the warning bells in his head, the doubts in his heart, and proposed to her. He’d hoped to escape the past and create the family he’d never had. She’d accepted. That’s when he’d found the house. Sure, he’d been wrong to buy it without her. But he had fallen in love with it. The stone fireplace. The view of the Sound. And it was old. French doors to a small patio in the back added charm he couldn’t resist. The large, sunny bedroom had made it perfect. He had been sure she’d love it too. So, he had sprung the place on her as a pre-wedding surprise.
But Gemma didn’t love it. She wanted something larger, grander. She called it “cramped,” “musty,” and “ancient.” She craved something modern, like Whit’s apartment, with a black leather sofa and stark, white walls. He was sick of the coldness of it. For a family, he’d envisioned something warmer, cozy, and told her so. Something exactly like the stone house. He and Gemma’d had their first serious fight over it. Then, the idea had come to him.
He had wondered all along if she’d been more interested in his salary than him. So, he had contrived a test. He lied and told her he’d been fired. He had wanted to see what she’d do. She had been sympathetic for the first day or two. When he had said he might take a newspaper job for a lot less money, she had drifted away. She had booked more modeling dates out of town.
It had become clear that if he wasn’t going to make big bucks and be famous, she didn’t want him. He had broken their engagement, with no complaints from her. In the media, she had said it was friendly, but it was anything but for Whit. His bubble had burst. His intended wife had bugged out, deserting him even before the wedding. Nervous enough as a fiancé, once her true colors had shown, that was the end for him. He had vowed never to consider marriage again. He had hardened his heart against the concept.
He had been depressed for a few weeks. He’d gotten used to the idea that he was going to cheat Fate, turn back the clock, and have the warm, loving family he had missed. A new happiness had entered his heart. But when it all crumbled like week-old bread, he had been crushed. Once again, he was left with his nose pressed against the glass, watching other happy families, other men have wives and children that he had been denied.
He had become bitter for a while and stopped dating then philosophical, deciding that not everyone was meant to have everything. He had a successful career and financial security, what more could he want? He had stuffed away his desires for his own family, resigned to his fate as a single man, and closed his heart off to any possibilities of commitment.
But he had never stopped loving the stone house. Decorating had only gotten as far as buying a couch and a bed before his engagement had died. Broken-hearted, Whit had never finished furnishing the place. Never went to see it. It represented everything he’d wanted all his life, but would never have. While he’d given up the dream, he couldn’t bear to give up the house.
He’d made up his mind to sell it two months earlier, but never notified the agent. Now, he made a note to call her in the morning. Time to unload it, since I’ll be leaving for Asia soon.
His heart was heavy, yet he refused to own up to the real reason, even to himself. He picked up the book he was reading from his nightstand and lost himself in an adventure with Nero Wolfe until sleep came.
He was woken up at four o’clock by the most God-awful noise he’d ever heard. A cross between a squeal, a bark, and a scream, the sound pierced his ears, making him alert instantly.
What the hell? Is someone getting murdered? Bess! He leaped out of bed, grabbed his terry robe, and raced to the hall. When he flung open the door, his mouth dropped at the sight that greeted him.
Chapter Six
Wide awake, Whit rubbed his eyes. The skinniest, mangiest pug he’d ever seen was screeching while Dumpling had him cornered. She growled at the other dog with a ferocity that seemed incongruous to her size. What the hell? That little pipsqueak? She’s damned aggressive.
The scrawny pug dropped the rawhide chew from his mouth and cowered. Bess was talking to Dumpling, but the little female wouldn’t back down. Finally, her mistress picked her up and hauled her inside. When the door closed behind them, Whit stepped into the hall. The other pooch made eye contact with him then quickly looked away.
“Poor thing,” he mumbled, crouching down and extending his hand.
The pug took a step toward him, but began to shiver.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” he whispered. But the big-eyed animal didn’t move.
The door across the hall opened again. Bess stopped abruptly, sucking in air. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Whit. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What’s going on? Who’s this?”
“My friend, Rory, does pug rescue. Her
s was aggressive with this little guy, so she brought him here. I thought he and Dumpling were getting along, but then he went for her bone, and it’s been World War Three ever since.”
“He looks pathetic.”
“He’s been mistreated, starved. He needs help.”
“Good luck. I hope you find him a good home.”
“I’m in a tight spot here. I need a place for him to stay for a few days. Would you…could you?”
“Me?” He pointed at his own chest, his eyes wide.
“You don’t have a dog, and you’ve got plenty of room. The little guy could get acclimated to a calmer environment. Only for a few days.”
“Why I couldn’t…I don’t know anything…”
“It’s wonderful of you to say ‘yes.’ I didn’t know anything about dogs, either, until I got Dumpling. Not much to learn. You’ll be great.”
“Hey, wait! I didn’t say…I didn’t agree…” Before he could finish his sentence, Bess picked up the quivering pup, came over, and kissed Whit on the cheek. The dog licked him. Suddenly, Whit was hooked. Bess transferred the pug to Whit’s embrace. “What’s his name?”
“Homer. But you can change it, if you like.”
“Homer?” He chuckled. “Perfect. Like the poet, eh?”
“Or Homer Simpson. Take your pick.”
“I don’t have any…”
Bess held up her hand, interrupting him. “I have everything. Wait here.”
“Where would I go?”
She disappeared into her apartment, which started Dumpling barking again. When Bess returned, her arms were full. Whit stood back to let her into his place.
“Here you go,” she said, padding into his kitchen. On the counter, she set down several cans of food, a plastic container of kibble, a harness, leash, a chew toy, and a small rawhide bone. She picked up the last item and shook it at Homer. “This was the ‘bone of contention.’ Dumpling decided she had to have it, and Homer wasn’t about to let go.”
Bess found a small bowl in the cabinet, filled it with water, and placed it on the floor. Whit eased the pug down. Homer immediately took a healthy drink.