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Confidential: Expecting!
Jackie Braun
Scoop: baby secret revealed!Journalist Mallory Stevens’ instructions are clear: expose the secrets of elusive radio talk-show host – and Chicago’s most eligible bachelor – Logan Bartholomew. Not fall hopelessly in love with him!As their relationship goes off the record, Mallory is stunned to discover she’s carrying her own little secret…
Dear Reader
The pre-writing phase of a book is always interesting for me. Usually I come up with my characters first, figure out what their issues and conflicts are, and then I build a plot around them. Sometimes doing so is easy. Sometimes it’s not. The plot for this book fell into the latter category.
Indeed, Logan and Mallory’s story went through so many incarnations before I ever began writing the first chapter that I finally gave up numbering my outlines. What eventually became the synopsis for CONFIDENTIAL: EXPECTING! actually bore the moniker ‘Logan and Mallory Newest Version’.
Thankfully, writing Logan and Mallory’s story proved to be much easier than writing that synopsis.
I hope you enjoy CONFIDENTIAL: EXPECTING! As always, I’d love to hear what you think. You can reach me through my website at www.jackiebraun.com
Best wishes
Jackie Braun
Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA
finalist, three-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, and a past winner of the Rising Star award. She lives in Michigan, with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
‘Unlike my heroine, I’d never be able to keep the news of a baby confidential. I think half the free world knew my husband and I were adopting a second child before the agency received our application.’
—Jackie Braun
“I’d like to see you again.”
That stopped her. “You would?” The line deepened between her brows even though she grinned. “To keep an enemy close?”
Logan didn’t smile. “No.”
“Then why?” Her head angled in challenge.
The ball was in his court. He was grimly serious when he said, “Because of this.”
He closed the distance between them as he spoke, and pulled her into his arms before he could think better of it. His mouth found hers before she could mount a protest. Instead, she rose on tiptoe and boldly kissed him back. When he would have ended it she was just getting started, tilting her head in the opposite direction and deepening the contact.
Zip. Zap. Zing.
He wanted her.
Confidential: Expecting!
BY
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
For Don and Jean Fridline, who lived a love story. I miss you both.
Chapter One
“IS THIS seat taken?”
Mallory Stevens knew that deep, seductive voice. As best she could, she braced herself before looking up into a pair of smiling gray-green eyes and a face that would have made Adonis seem homely by comparison. It was no use.
Zip, zap, zing!
Just that fast, her hormones snapped to attention and her limbs turned liquid. It was a bizarre reaction, though she’d be lying if she labeled it unpleasant. Nor was it unprecedented. She’d experienced its twin a week earlier when she’d met Logan Bartholomew for the first time.
They’d been in his office, and she’d written it off then as a fluke. She’d been working too many hours. She’d barely slept the night before. She’d gone without the company of a man for way, way too long.
But a fluke didn’t happen twice. When it did, and it involved a member of the opposite sex, it was called something else: attraction.
Mallory sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly between her teeth. She certainly had nothing against mingling with members of the opposite sex. She liked men, but she had a rule about mixing business with pleasure. It was a no-no. Logan Batholomew was business, even if everything about him made her body hum with pleasure.
“You’re welcome to join me, Doctor,” she told him. Though it took an effort, her tone was blessedly nonchalant. She hoped the smile she sent him was the same.
He folded his athletic frame into the chair, managing to look both elegant and masculine. For the umpteenth time in their short acquaintance, she found herself thinking his gorgeous looks were wasted on the radio. He hosted a call-in program that had all of Chicago talking.
“I thought we’d agreed it was just Logan,” he said.
Mallory knew he was wrong. Even though, now that he was here, sitting through the Windy City Women of Action luncheon she’d been assigned to cover held far more appeal, a qualifier such as just didn’t apply when it came to Logan. Everything about the guy was off the charts, from his leading-man looks and tri-athlete physique to the way his show had burned its way to the top of the ratings in a little over a year. It was no wonder he’d been voted Chicago’s most eligible bachelor in a recent poll sponsored by her newspaper.
As a reporter, Mallory reminded herself that she was interested in more than his heart-palpitating appeal and sigh-worthy exterior. She was interested in a story and she smelled one here. Not necessarily the sort that went with his sophisticated cologne and designer tie, and certainly not the trivial one that had landed her in his office the week before.
In her experience, no one was ever as perfect as this guy appeared to be with his Harvard degree and penchant for supporting worthwhile causes. She intended to unearth the skeletons in his closet and then expose each and every one of them. Maybe then her editor would forgive her for the embarrassing faux pas that had the newspaper’s lawyers fending off a libel suit and Mallory writing the kind of general assignment fluff that usually went to the college interns.
“I should thank you for the article you did on my commencement address to the students and faculty at Chesterfield Alternative High School,” he said.
Fluff, definitely. So much so that the airy advance had wound up buried in the bowels of the Chicago Herald’s Lifestyles section.
“You read it?” she asked, equally surprised that he’d found it.
“All four paragraphs,” came his dry reply.
Truth be told, Mallory had had to pad it with his background to make it that long. God, she missed her city hall beat. Two months of writing nonsense had her feeling like a carnivore at a vegetarians’ convention. She needed meat, the rarer the better, and unless her instincts were wrong, Logan was prime rib.
Angling her head to one side, she said, “So, any truth to the rumor I heard that Doctor in the Know might go national? Or that a certain cable television network has made you an offer for a prime-time program?”
If he was surprised by her questions, it didn’t show. He didn’t so much as blink. Rather, in a bland voice, he inquired, “On the record or off?”
“On, of course,” she replied.
“Well then, no.”
She lifted one brow. “And off the record?”
Logan leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She pictured his mouth, lips barely an inch from making contact with her earlobe when he whispered, “No comment.”
In spite of herself, Mallory shivered. The man was downright lethal, a straight shot of sex outfitted in a suit that probably cost the equivalent of a month’s worth of her take-home pay. She’d splurged on the black pencil skirt and tan fitted jacket she was wearing, but they were hardly designer label. Clearly, she was in the wrong profession, not that she had any plans to change. She loved her job. Until lately, it had been by far the most satisfying and reliable thing in her life. She intended it to be that way again.
Leaning back in her chair, Mallory smiled at Logan. “I’ll find out eventually, you know. Ferreting out people’s secrets is what I do best.”
“I’d heard that about you,” he replied amiably. “In fact, my agent called to warn me to be on my toes before you came to my office for the interview last week. She said you were a regular pit bull.”
“A pit bull, hmm?” Mallory ran her tongue over her teeth.
“Actually, she called you a rabid pit bull.” Logan chuckled as if to soften the description and added, “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Offended me?” She exhaled sharply. “Please. I’m flattered by her description.”
“I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” Still Mallory shrugged. “I’ll take it as one, anyway. In my line of work I believe in going for the throat. It’s what yields the best results.”
Her gaze lowered as she said this. Loosen that silk tie and undo the top button at his collar and Logan Bartholomew had one very delicious-looking neck.
“What about outside of work?”
His question startled her from her musings. Mallory’s gaze shot back to his face, where a potent and very male smile greeted her.
“Wh-what do you mean?” She hated that she’d actually stammered like a shy schoolgirl conversing with the football team’s star quarterback.
“What do you do after hours? You know, to unwind?” His expression was just this side of challenging.
“I tend to work late.” Then she went home alone, picking up some takeout on the way to her walk-up half a block from an El stop. Once she’d changed out of her work attire, she usually ate while watching the television before crashing for the night on the queen-size bed in her room. Alone.
“No…boyfriend?” he inquired.
Her eyes narrowed. “Not at the moment.” Though not for two years was closer to reality.
“Hmm.”
“Are you analyzing me, Doctor?” Mallory asked.
“Logan,” he reminded her with an affable grin.
“Yes, but at the moment you’re sounding an awful lot like someone with a degree in psychiatry.”
“Ah.” He grimaced, seemingly for effect. “Sorry about that. A hazard of my profession, I’m afraid. I just find it hard to believe that someone as bright, interesting and, well, attractive as you are isn’t in a serious relationship.”
“Good save.” She said it dryly in the hope of camouflaging the spurt of pleasure she’d experienced upon hearing his compliments.
Bright, interesting, attractive. What woman wouldn’t want to be considered all three, especially by a man who looked like this one?
The servers came around then with their salads and baskets of bread. Mallory selected a hard roll. At their first meeting, Logan’s time had been limited, so she’d only had the opportunity to ask him questions related to the commencement address. Now, under the guise of small talk, she asked him, “What about you? What do you do when you’re not at the radio station?”
“Well, for starters, I like to eat.” He forked up some mixed baby greens that were coated in raspberry vinaigrette.
“Yes, you look it.” Logan was a walking advertisement for physical fitness. If the man looked this good with his clothes on, she could only imagine how he appeared sans his professional attire. The thought had her coughing.
He swatted her back. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she managed. “Never better. You were saying something about eating?”
“I like food. For that reason, I learned how to cook.”
Mallory squinted at him. “Learned how to cook as in learned how to work the microwave oven or learned how to cook as in—”
“I know my way around the kitchen,” he inserted. “For instance, tonight I’m planning to grill a marinated flank steak and then pair it with rice noodles and a simple green salad.”
Her mouth watered. “Just for you?”
“Most likely.”
“I’m impressed.” And she was. “I’ve never gotten much beyond boiling water, which is actually pretty handy considering it’s one of the most important steps in making macaroni and cheese.”
“From a box,” he acknowledged. “There are other ways, you know.”
No, she didn’t know. In her albeit limited experience, all that was necessary was to bring the water to a boil and add the elbow noodles. When they were cooked, she drained the water, drizzled in a quarter cup of milk and stirred in the packet of a dry, cheeselike substance. Voilà. Dinner.
Logan was saying, “I’ve found cooking to be a surprising release for my creative energy.”
She found his admission surprising, as well, but as secrets went, well, news that Chicago’s new favorite son liked to play chef in his off hours wasn’t likely to score Mallory many points with her editor.
So, she asked, “What else do you do in your spare time? I know you don’t frequent the hot night spots.”
She’d checked.
“I’m a little old for that.”
“Thirty-six isn’t exactly ancient.” Especially when it came packaged in broad shoulders, narrow hips and topped off with a full head of gorgeous sandy hair.
The shoulders in question rose. “Night clubs aren’t really my thing.”
They weren’t Mallory’s, either. Sure, she liked to dance, sip a cocktail and have a good time every now and then, but she’d long ago grown out of the meat-market scene so many of the city’s hottest spots promoted. These days when she went out it was usually with a former college roommate for margaritas at a little Mexican restaurant that was one step above dive status.
“So, what is your thing?” she asked.
Logan said nothing for a long moment. Rather, he studied her with a gaze that was both challenging and assessing. Which is why Mallory found herself holding her breath until he finally replied, “I like to sail.”
The air whooshed from her lungs. “Sail. As in boats?” Mallory couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Unless he was going to tell her he kept narcotics in the hold this revelation was as newsworthy as the tidbit about playing chef.
“Is there any other kind?” He was smiling. “My parents had a catamaran when I was a boy. I loved being out on it. So, I bought a thirty-one-footer a few years back. I take her out on Lake Michigan as often as I can. Even so, the season’s just too damn short here.”
Mallory didn’t consider herself to be the romantic sort, yet she had no problem picturing Logan standing on a teak deck, manning the helm of a sailboat as the Chicago skyline grew small at his back and the deep aquamarine waters of the great lake beckoned.
“Sounds nice,” she said in a voice just this side of wispy. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“It is. Especially first thing in morning. There’s nothing like sitting on deck, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the sun crest the horizon.”
Mallory swallowed. Focus, she coached herself, when her mind threatened to meander a second time. “You make it sound like you sleep on your boat.”
“I’ve been known to. It’s peaceful out there, you know? None of the city noise. Only lapping water and the occasional cry of gulls.”
She thought about the El train that rumbled past her apartment at regular intervals. As far as she was concerned, what he spoke of was heaven. That was before she pictured him clad in…hmm…what did the good doctor wear to bed? That question brought another one to mind.
“Do you sleep there alone?” When his brows rose, she amended her query. “Who do you go sailing with?”
Logan’s laughter rumbled, deep and rich, dancing up her spine like a flat stone skipping over water. “Are you asking if I’m involved with someone?”
She cleared her throat, kept her tone reporter-neutral. “A lot of single women who read the Herald are dying to know just how eligible of a bachelor you are.”
“It’s that damned poll.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “Every man in Chicago wishes he were so lucky as to find his name on it.”
“Do I have you to thank for my…providence?” he inquired.
Mallory shook her head. “I wasn’t part of the Lifestyles team then.”
He was undeterred. “But are you one of them? You know, the voters, those women interested in my personal life?”
“Not a voter, no. But you bet I am interested in your personal life.” She pulled a pen and slim notepad from the purse hanging over the back of her chair. “So?”
Some of the good humor leaked out of Logan’s expression when he said, “I didn’t realize that you were sent to this luncheon to cover me.”
Was that censure she spied in his gaze or disappointment? Mallory didn’t like seeing either one, but neither was she willing to back down. “Rabid pit bull,” Logan’s agent had called her. Well, she’d earned the reputation for a reason.
“Sorry. Hazard of my profession. And I can’t help thinking you make a far more interesting story than the winner of this year’s Action Award.” She tilted her head in the direction of the head table. “You’re a local celebrity, Logan. Homegrown, selfmade and very successful. You’re also a bit mysterious. Other than where you earned your degree and some of your vital statistics, not much is known about you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I like my privacy.”
“Yes, and readers like to invade it.” Mallory angled her head to one side. “It’s good public relations to toss them a bone every now and then. You know, since they’re the ones who tune in to your radio program and all.” Going for the jugular, she added, “In a very real sense, you could say you owe your success to them.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” A smile spread slowly across his face. Lethal, Mallory thought again, as her hormones popped around inside her like the numbered balls in a bingo machine. She found herself actually leaning toward him, drawn the way a moth is to a flame. And so it came as little surprise when heat began to spiral through her.
“Well?” Was that her voice that sounded so breathless, so damned eager?
“I’m not…in a relationship.”
She moistened her lips, leaned back. “Ah.”
What exactly did that mean? Men, she knew firsthand, defined relationships differently than women did.
“Any other questions?” Logan asked.
Mallory had dozens of them, and the man, her prime-rib ticket to workplace redemption, was offering her the opportunity to ask them. Unfortunately, with him looking at her in that assessing way, her mind had gone blank. She shook her head slowly, thankful when their entrees arrived and saved her from appearing tongue-tied, which, for the first time in her professional life, she was.
They ate their rubber chicken and overcooked rice pilaf in virtual silence; all the while Mallory recalled his mention of grilled marinated flank steak. It was almost a relief when the servers cleared away their plates and the award program began. Except that, as the president of the women’s club blathered on about the recipient’s many virtues, from the corner of her eye, Mallory spied Logan watching her.
What on earth was he thinking?
Logan studied Mallory. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was bright, interesting and attractive.
Attractive. Hell, she was downright lovely with all that rich brown hair framing an oval face that was dominated by the most amazing pair of big dark eyes he’d ever seen. Despite her physical beauty, it was her personality that captivated him. He liked smart women. The smarter the better. Add in pretty and, well, it was a lethal combination as far as he was concerned. Mallory certainly hit the mark. That in itself was a problem.
Logan had met her kind once before, years ago. He’d fallen hard at the time, so hard he’d almost made it to the altar, ready and willing to promise his undying love and devotion. A month before their nuptials, however, his fiancée had called off the wedding. Felicia had claimed to need time and space. She’d needed to think, to reflect. What became clear was she hadn’t needed him. She married someone else.
It had been nearly a decade since then. Logan had heard from her only once, just after her wedding. She’d sent him a letter, the postmark read Portland, Oregon. In the brief note, she’d asked him to forgive her, but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t. She’d included no forwarding address or phone number. He’d taken the hint. He’d been wary of commitment ever since.
That didn’t mean he didn’t like women or spending time with them. It just meant he didn’t let things progress into anything serious.
He glanced over at Mallory. She was scribbling down notes, seemingly absorbed in the award recipient’s less-than-exciting speech. As he watched her, his interest, among other things, was definitely piqued.
Rabid pit bull.
Logan’s agent had been adamant that he should steer clear of this particular reporter. Mallory had a reputation for ruining people, Nina Lowman insisted. Maybe it was the masochist in him that considered her reputation a challenge. Besides, he could handle himself around reporters. He’d been doing it enough since his radio call-in program had staked out the top spot in the ratings.
So, as the luncheon wrapped up, Logan leaned over to Mallory and asked, “Since turnabout is fair play, I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“What are you doing later this afternoon?”
She blinked, before her eyes narrowed. Why was it he found her suspicion sexy?
“Filing a story. Why?”
“How long will that take?”
“For this?” Her lips twisted, showing her distaste. It wasn’t the first time he wondered why a reporter with her reputation had been sent to cover a minor story. “I need a couple of quotes from the winner, a quote from someone on the award committee and to tap out a couple of paragraphs summing up why the winner was selected.”
“In other words, you could write it in your sleep,” he concluded.
She rewarded his blunt assessment with a smile. “Once I do a couple of brief interviews it should take me half an hour, tops. Why?”
Logan was playing with fire, which wasn’t like him. While he liked challenges, he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks. Still, he heard himself ask, “Have you ever seen the city from the water?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Well, if you want to, I dock my sailboat, the Tangled Sheets, at the yacht club. I’m planning to take her out around five.”
Something flashed in her dark eyes. Interest? Excitement? Briefly he wondered whether it was the reporter or the woman responsible for whatever emotion it was. To his surprise, he found he didn’t care.
“Which yacht club?” she asked.
Logan wasn’t willing to make it too easy for her. So he stood and, giving her a salute, walked backward a few steps toward the exit.
Just before turning he called, “You’re a reporter, Mallory. If you really want to meet me, you’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Two
DESPITE changing into a lightweight blouse and a pair of cropped trousers, Mallory was wilting in the late-afternoon heat by the time she arrived at Logan’s slip at the Chicago Yacht Club. It didn’t help that she’d nearly jogged the half-dozen blocks from the El stop. She had a car, but she often found public transportation less of a hassle than trying to find a place to park.
After leaving the luncheon, she’d hurried through her story, filing it after only a cursory second read and a run of her computer’s spellchecker. It wasn’t like her to rush, especially for a man. But then Logan was far more than that to her. He was a story.
Her story took her breath away when she caught sight of him standing with his feet planted shoulder-width apart on the deck of a sailboat. Behind him sunlight reflected off the smooth, aquamarine surface of the lake, making him look like something straight out of a fantasy.
His back was to her, a cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, so she took her time studying him. He’d changed his clothing, too. Instead of the pricy suit he’d worn earlier, he was attired in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off a pair of muscled arms and casual tan slacks that fit nicely across a very fine and firm-looking butt. Mallory fanned herself. Damned heat. Though it was only June, the mercury had to be pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
On the barest wisp of a breeze, Logan’s side of the conversation floated to her.
“You don’t need to worry…No. Really. Do you know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” His laughter rumbled deep and rich before he continued. “Exactly…Yeah, I’ll call you.”
He said goodbye and flipped his phone closed. As soon as he turned and spotted Mallory, male interest lit up his eyes and a flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
He coughed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Obviously.”
His flush deepened.
Mallory could have pretended not to have overheard anything. That would have been the polite thing to do. But she was a reporter, which meant curiosity trumped politeness.
“So, which one am I?” When he frowned, she added helpfully, “Friend or enemy?”
She gave him credit. Logan pulled out of his flaming, death spiral with amazing speed and agility. But then, he was a veteran of talk radio and live broadcasts, which meant he was good at thinking on his feet.
Walking to the rail, he asked, “Which one do you consider yourself?”
“Ah. Very clever, turning the question around. Is that what they teach you to do in psychiatry school?”
“Among other things,” he allowed.
Whatever remained of his embarrassment had evaporated completely by the time his hand clasped Mallory’s to help her aboard. His palm was warm against hers, pleasantly so despite the heat. It seemed a shame when he removed it, though she supposed it would have been awkward if he had continued the contact.
“So,” she said, filling in the silence.
“So.” One side of his mouth lifted, but he backed up a step, and she liked knowing that she could keep him as off balance as he made her. Tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming or that you’d be able to find me.”
Though the city had more than one yacht club, it hadn’t taken much effort. His boat was registered. Besides, the Chicago Yacht Club, which dated to the late eighteen hundreds, was exclusive. It seemed the most likely spot for an up-and-coming celebrity who cherished his privacy.
Mallory nodded toward the bottle of red wine that was open and breathing on a small table topside. “I’d say you knew that I would.”
He shrugged. “I was hopeful. Besides, I was banking on your journalistic instincts.”
“I bank on them, too, since they rarely fail me.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“You tell me,” she replied.
“I guess that depends on why you’re here.”
“I was invited,” she reminded him.
“So you were.”
In truth, Mallory was still perplexed by
Logan’s spontaneous offer of an afternoon sail. It was one of the reasons she’d come. What exactly did the man have in mind?
“Why?” The question rent the silence with all the delicacy of a gull’s cry.
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you invite me?”
“Well, that’s blunt.” He chuckled.
Mallory shrugged. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” With an index finger, he tapped his cell phone. “You know, my agent wanted to know the answer to that very question, too.”
“What did you tell her, besides not to worry?”
His brows furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t have an answer for her.”
“Besides the friends-and-enemies adage,” Mallory remarked.
“Besides that,” he agreed. “So, why did you come? And, yes, I’m turning the question around.”
“Curiosity,” she replied honestly. “How could I decline when I find you so intriguing?”
“I’m flattered, I think. Especially if that’s the woman speaking rather than the reporter.”
“They’re one and the same, remember?”
Logan’s gaze intensified. “Are you sure about that?”
She was, or at least she had been until he’d pinned her with that stare and baldly asked. The boat moved under her feet, a slight rolling motion that reminded her of the water bed she’d had as a teenager. She’d slept like a baby back then. These days she was lucky to snatch a few hours of uninterrupted slumber before her eyes snapped open and her mind began clicking away like a slide projector, flashing the items on her current to-do list at work along with the goals related to her long-range career plans.
“I’d love a glass of that wine,” she said, opting to change the subject.
“I wouldn’t mind some myself.” As he poured it, he said, “How exactly did you find me? I only ask so I can prevent others from doing the same.”
“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.”
“Why? A sheet is another name for a sail, Mallory.” His face was the picture of innocence now, but it was plain he understood the double entendre because when he turned to retrieve two coffee cups from a cupboard the grin returned.
“Well, someone has either taken excellent care of this boat or it’s been restored.”
“The latter,” Logan confirmed. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
He handed her a steaming cup and poured one for himself. Leaning back against the sink, he said, “It took me an entire winter’s worth of weekends after I purchased her—” he cleared his throat “—I mean, Duke, to finish the overhaul. I basically gutted the place and started over. And I’m still puttering most weekends.”
He glanced around the salon and nodded. Puttering still or not, his expression made it clear he was pleased with his progress so far. Mallory could understand why. Logan might not look like the sort of man who would know a hammer from a ham sandwich, but obviously he could hold his own with the guys on HGTV. Power suits and power tools didn’t normally go together. Questions bubbled.
“Where did you learn carpentry and—” she motioned with her hand “—how to do repair and maintenance?”
“One of my dad’s hobbies is woodworking, and he’s always been good at home repair. My brother and I spent a lot of time with him in his workshop, helping him put things together. I picked up a few tips along the way.”
“I guess so.”
“You’re surprised.”
“Maybe a little. You don’t look like the sort of man who would be…”
“Good with his hands?” he finished.
He set his coffee aside and held up both hands palm side out. His fingers were long, elegant, but the palms were calloused. The man was definitely hard to figure out, but she wasn’t trying at the moment. She was staring at those work-roughened hands and wondering how they would feel…on her skin.
Mallory swallowed and ordered herself to stay focused. “Why not just buy something brand-new?”
“I don’t know. I guess you could say I prefer a challenge.”
The way his eyes lit made Mallory wonder if that was what he considered her to be.
Logan was saying, “Besides, she had great bones and an even better history. Her previous owner had sailed her from Massachusetts all the way to Saint Thomas the year before I got her and nearly lost her to a hurricane along the way.”
“So, your boat is a survivor and you had a hand in resurrecting her…him.”
“Duke.”
“Duke,” she repeated.
His laughter was dry. “Yes, but I can assure you I don’t suffer from a God complex.”
“Then why did you get into psychiatry? Didn’t you want to save people?”
“I wanted to help people.” Oddly, he frowned after saying so. He sipped his coffee. The frown was gone when he added, “Most people have the tools to turn their lives around all on their own. They just need a little guidance recognizing those tools and learning how to use them.”
“Good analogy. I guess you really are the son of a carpenter.”
“Yeah.” He laughed and was once again his sexy self when he asked, “Ready for that sail?”
“Of course. That’s why I came.”
Chapter Three
LOGAN used the motor to maneuver the boat out of its slip at the yacht club. Once away from the shore, he cut the engine and enlisted Mallory to help him hoist the sails. He could have done it by himself. That’s what he usually did, even though it was a lot of work for one person and took some of the pleasure out of the pastime.
Pleasure.
That’s what he was experiencing now as he and Mallory stood together on the deck while the boat sliced neatly through the water. He rarely shared Tangled Sheets with anyone. It was his private retreat, his getaway from not only the hustle of the city, but from the fame he’d chased so successfully and the reporters who now chased him. Reporters who were much less dangerous than Mallory Stevens was…at least to hear his agent tell it. Nina Lowman had made Logan promise to call him later in the evening, apparently as proof that he’d survived the encounter. Even so, he didn’t regret his decision to ask Mallory aboard.
He attributed the invitation to the fact that he’d been without the company of a woman for several months. Scratch that. He’d been without the company of an interesting woman for several months, maybe even for several years. Logan’s last fling, and fling was almost too generous a term for it, had been with a socialite who’d turned out to be every bit as vapid and vacant as she was gorgeous. Tonya may have been stimulating in many regards, but conversation wasn’t one of them. Logan enjoyed smart women. He enjoyed savvy women. Women who were as adept at playing chess as they were strip poker. Logan would bet his last stitch of clothing that Mallory could hold her own in both games.
So it really was no surprise he was enjoying himself this evening. The bonus was that the feeling appeared to be mutual. Glancing over, he noticed that Mallory was leaning against the rail. Her eyes were closed, and the fine line between her brows had disappeared. Even with her face turned to the wind, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
For the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly relaxed. And all the more lovely for it, which was saying a lot. The woman was naturally beautiful to begin with: fresh-faced, unmade, unpretentiously pretty. Of course, she could afford to have a light hand with makeup. Her lashes were dark and ridiculously thick and long. They fringed a set of eyes that were rich with secrets. No other adornment was necessary.
A man could get sucked into those eyes if he wasn’t careful. It was a good thing Logan had no intention of being lulled into complacency, even if he did enjoy the challenge of staying one step ahead of her.
The eyes in question opened. If Mallory was unnerved to find him studying her, it didn’t show. She regarded him in return—boldly, bluntly and not the least bit embarrassed or uncomfortable. Logan swallowed, experiencing again that low tug of interest that seemed to define the time he spent in her presence.
“I probably should apologize for staring,” he admitted. He waited a beat before adding, “And if you were another kind of woman, I would.”
Her brows rose fractionally. “Another kind of woman?”
“The coy sort.”
“Coy.” Her lips pursed. “That’s not a word one hears often nowadays. It’s rather old-fashioned.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not old-fashioned.”
No, indeed. Mallory was worldly, at least in the sense that she grasped nuances, gestures. She wasn’t hard, though. He recalled the way she’d looked when speaking about her parents’ divorce. Then she had seemed almost vulnerable.
“Nor am I coy,” she continued now.
It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was insulted or not. Logan decided she wasn’t. “Which is why I don’t feel the need to stand on pretense around you. I can say what I mean.”
“Hmm.” It was an arousing sound that drew his gaze to her mouth. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked. When he glanced up and met her gaze, the amusement shimmering in her eyes told him she’d already made up her mind.
“A good thing. Definitely a good thing.”
She laughed. The sound was low and throaty. “I don’t know. I think I might prefer some pretense every now and then. I get so little of it. Subterfuge, sure.” She exhaled. “That’s par for the course in my line of work.”
“But we’re not talking about your work.” Interesting, Logan thought, how it kept coming back to that. Interesting and a little unnerving.
Mallory smiled. “Oh, that’s right. We’re talking about pretense.”
Not just talking about it, he thought. Well, two could play the game. Logan decided to up the ante. “Are you saying you want me to pretend that I don’t find you as sexy as hell?”
She blinked. He’d caught her off guard. He’d done it a few times in their relatively short acquaintance. Perhaps it was his male ego talking, but he liked knowing he could manage it.
“Well?” he prodded when she remained quiet.
“I’m trying to think of a response.”
“And you can’t?” That came as a surprise.
Mallory cleared her throat. “Well, you have to admit, Doc, yours is a loaded question.”
Just the sort of question she was very good at asking, but he kept the observation to himself. Instead, Logan snorted. “And here I thought you weren’t one to act coy.”
“Well, if I tell you no, you’ll think I’m playing games, but if I say yes, you’ll accuse me of being vain.”
“Will I?”
She ignored his question. “You’ve painted me into a corner. I don’t like corners.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, you did.”
He flashed a grin. “Okay, maybe I did. But in my defense, I find myself immensely curious as to what your answer will be.”
The wind tugged at her hair, sending several strands of it across her face. Mallory pushed them aside with the palm of her hand. The gesture was practical and…“Tell me, Doc, what woman doesn’t enjoy being called sexy?”
It was a question rather than an actual answer, but Logan let it pass.
“For the record, I believe I said ‘sexy as hell.’ If you’re going to quote me…” He left the sentence unfinished in part because the words were unnecessary, but mostly because her complexion paled. When she stumbled back a step, he reached out to steady her. “Mallory? Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She moved back another step to lean against the rail, forcing him to release her arm. “I…I guess I don’t have my sea legs yet.” He didn’t think that was what had caused her momentary weakness, but she was saying, “In response to your finding me ‘sexy as hell,’ what am I supposed to do?”
“I have a couple of suggestions.” He bobbed his brows to lighten the moment and was rewarded with a laugh.
“I hate to break it to you, but coy isn’t another word for promiscuous.”
Logan snapped his fingers in a show of disappointment. “Damn.”
“You know, if I thought you really meant that, I’d have to toss you overboard.”
He had little doubt she would try and perhaps even succeed despite the fact she was no match for him physically. “How would you get back to the yacht club then?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, I’d manage.”
Even from their short acquaintance, Logan could tell that about her. Mallory was a survivor. That caused him to sober. He’d met survivors before. He’d counseled a good number of them in his private practice before he’d taken his profession to the airwaves. While he admired their ability to persevere and overcome, in some cases survivors could be very solitary. They didn’t need anyone.
“It’s time to head back.”
“Already? You know, I was just kidding about leaving you bobbing in Lake Michigan.” She laughed again.
Logan joined in. “I know.”
“But I’ve made you nervous.” The line returned between her brows.
“Not because of that remark,” he admitted.
“Hmm.” There was that sexy sound again.
“There’s not much daylight left and I’m not a fan of sailing in the dark. Besides, I have some prep work to finish for tomorrow morning’s show.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication. In addition to taking listeners’ calls, Logan included a segment on general mental-health topics. Tomorrow’s, appropriately enough, was panic attacks.
He prepared to bring the boat around. Mallory helped. In fact, she insisted on lending a hand, as if it was vital that she know what to do to return to the safety of the shore. Survivor, he thought again.
“Watch for the boom,” he called. “Or you’ll be the one overboard.”
“Aye-aye,” she called, offering a salute even as she ducked to avoid being struck.
When the Chicago skyline with the sun peeking around the skyscrapers was before them, she whistled. “Talk about a milliondollar view.”
“It’s something all right. Want to take a turn at the helm?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I never kid when it comes to my boat.”
“Then, yes.” She stepped into place, legs splayed shoulder width apart, hands at the ten and two positions on the wooden wheel he’d spent hours sanding and staining. Though there was no need, Logan moved in behind her and set his hands over hers.
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.
“Sure.” He dipped his head low enough so his jaw scraped her cheek and whispered into her ear, “I’m just looking for a good excuse to touch you.”
Was that a shiver he felt? It was hard to say since Mallory’s voice sounded perfectly normal when she asked, “Do you need an excuse to do that?”
“Apparently.”
“Sad.” She made a tsking sound. “Perhaps you should see someone about your…hang-up around competent women.”
“Hang-up?”
She shrugged. “I know this famous doctor who might be able to offer some advice.”
“Really?” He let his cheek brush against hers. “Should I make an appointment?”
“No. He’s much too busy to take appointments these days. Famous, remember?”
“Ah. Right.”
“But you could place a call to his radio program. It airs weekday mornings, top of the FM dial. All of Chi-town tunes in to listen to it.”
“Don’t forget the rest of the greater metropolitan area,” he added.
“How could I? He’s the savior of their maddening morning commute. Who knows how many cases of road rage he’s nipped in the bud with his calming words of wisdom. Hundreds would be my guess.”
“I’d venture thousands,” Logan said. “No wonder he’s said to be in contract negotiations for a nationally syndicated television show.”
Mallory went still. The teasing humor was gone from her tone when she said, “Really?”
God, was the woman ever off the clock? “That’s the rumor, anyway. Sadly, it’s unconfirmed.”
Logan felt a little guilty for baiting Mallory until she leaned back against his chest. Then he just felt…her. More precisely, he felt the vibration of her laughter. “Well, I’m sure the doctor can help you.”
Dark hair tickled his jaw. “Why are you sure?”
“From the press releases I’ve read on this guy, he can all but walk on water.”
He’d seen those releases, which had come courtesy of his agent and the station’s marketing team. He knew what Mallory meant. The accolades were true but they made him uneasy, for the very fact that while he’d once believed he truly had a gift for helping people, these days he sometimes felt all he did was entertain them for a few hours of product-sponsored programming.
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Jackie Braun
Scoop: baby secret revealed!Journalist Mallory Stevens’ instructions are clear: expose the secrets of elusive radio talk-show host – and Chicago’s most eligible bachelor – Logan Bartholomew. Not fall hopelessly in love with him!As their relationship goes off the record, Mallory is stunned to discover she’s carrying her own little secret…
Dear Reader
The pre-writing phase of a book is always interesting for me. Usually I come up with my characters first, figure out what their issues and conflicts are, and then I build a plot around them. Sometimes doing so is easy. Sometimes it’s not. The plot for this book fell into the latter category.
Indeed, Logan and Mallory’s story went through so many incarnations before I ever began writing the first chapter that I finally gave up numbering my outlines. What eventually became the synopsis for CONFIDENTIAL: EXPECTING! actually bore the moniker ‘Logan and Mallory Newest Version’.
Thankfully, writing Logan and Mallory’s story proved to be much easier than writing that synopsis.
I hope you enjoy CONFIDENTIAL: EXPECTING! As always, I’d love to hear what you think. You can reach me through my website at www.jackiebraun.com
Best wishes
Jackie Braun
Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA
finalist, three-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, and a past winner of the Rising Star award. She lives in Michigan, with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
‘Unlike my heroine, I’d never be able to keep the news of a baby confidential. I think half the free world knew my husband and I were adopting a second child before the agency received our application.’
—Jackie Braun
“I’d like to see you again.”
That stopped her. “You would?” The line deepened between her brows even though she grinned. “To keep an enemy close?”
Logan didn’t smile. “No.”
“Then why?” Her head angled in challenge.
The ball was in his court. He was grimly serious when he said, “Because of this.”
He closed the distance between them as he spoke, and pulled her into his arms before he could think better of it. His mouth found hers before she could mount a protest. Instead, she rose on tiptoe and boldly kissed him back. When he would have ended it she was just getting started, tilting her head in the opposite direction and deepening the contact.
Zip. Zap. Zing.
He wanted her.
Confidential: Expecting!
BY
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
For Don and Jean Fridline, who lived a love story. I miss you both.
Chapter One
“IS THIS seat taken?”
Mallory Stevens knew that deep, seductive voice. As best she could, she braced herself before looking up into a pair of smiling gray-green eyes and a face that would have made Adonis seem homely by comparison. It was no use.
Zip, zap, zing!
Just that fast, her hormones snapped to attention and her limbs turned liquid. It was a bizarre reaction, though she’d be lying if she labeled it unpleasant. Nor was it unprecedented. She’d experienced its twin a week earlier when she’d met Logan Bartholomew for the first time.
They’d been in his office, and she’d written it off then as a fluke. She’d been working too many hours. She’d barely slept the night before. She’d gone without the company of a man for way, way too long.
But a fluke didn’t happen twice. When it did, and it involved a member of the opposite sex, it was called something else: attraction.
Mallory sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly between her teeth. She certainly had nothing against mingling with members of the opposite sex. She liked men, but she had a rule about mixing business with pleasure. It was a no-no. Logan Batholomew was business, even if everything about him made her body hum with pleasure.
“You’re welcome to join me, Doctor,” she told him. Though it took an effort, her tone was blessedly nonchalant. She hoped the smile she sent him was the same.
He folded his athletic frame into the chair, managing to look both elegant and masculine. For the umpteenth time in their short acquaintance, she found herself thinking his gorgeous looks were wasted on the radio. He hosted a call-in program that had all of Chicago talking.
“I thought we’d agreed it was just Logan,” he said.
Mallory knew he was wrong. Even though, now that he was here, sitting through the Windy City Women of Action luncheon she’d been assigned to cover held far more appeal, a qualifier such as just didn’t apply when it came to Logan. Everything about the guy was off the charts, from his leading-man looks and tri-athlete physique to the way his show had burned its way to the top of the ratings in a little over a year. It was no wonder he’d been voted Chicago’s most eligible bachelor in a recent poll sponsored by her newspaper.
As a reporter, Mallory reminded herself that she was interested in more than his heart-palpitating appeal and sigh-worthy exterior. She was interested in a story and she smelled one here. Not necessarily the sort that went with his sophisticated cologne and designer tie, and certainly not the trivial one that had landed her in his office the week before.
In her experience, no one was ever as perfect as this guy appeared to be with his Harvard degree and penchant for supporting worthwhile causes. She intended to unearth the skeletons in his closet and then expose each and every one of them. Maybe then her editor would forgive her for the embarrassing faux pas that had the newspaper’s lawyers fending off a libel suit and Mallory writing the kind of general assignment fluff that usually went to the college interns.
“I should thank you for the article you did on my commencement address to the students and faculty at Chesterfield Alternative High School,” he said.
Fluff, definitely. So much so that the airy advance had wound up buried in the bowels of the Chicago Herald’s Lifestyles section.
“You read it?” she asked, equally surprised that he’d found it.
“All four paragraphs,” came his dry reply.
Truth be told, Mallory had had to pad it with his background to make it that long. God, she missed her city hall beat. Two months of writing nonsense had her feeling like a carnivore at a vegetarians’ convention. She needed meat, the rarer the better, and unless her instincts were wrong, Logan was prime rib.
Angling her head to one side, she said, “So, any truth to the rumor I heard that Doctor in the Know might go national? Or that a certain cable television network has made you an offer for a prime-time program?”
If he was surprised by her questions, it didn’t show. He didn’t so much as blink. Rather, in a bland voice, he inquired, “On the record or off?”
“On, of course,” she replied.
“Well then, no.”
She lifted one brow. “And off the record?”
Logan leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She pictured his mouth, lips barely an inch from making contact with her earlobe when he whispered, “No comment.”
In spite of herself, Mallory shivered. The man was downright lethal, a straight shot of sex outfitted in a suit that probably cost the equivalent of a month’s worth of her take-home pay. She’d splurged on the black pencil skirt and tan fitted jacket she was wearing, but they were hardly designer label. Clearly, she was in the wrong profession, not that she had any plans to change. She loved her job. Until lately, it had been by far the most satisfying and reliable thing in her life. She intended it to be that way again.
Leaning back in her chair, Mallory smiled at Logan. “I’ll find out eventually, you know. Ferreting out people’s secrets is what I do best.”
“I’d heard that about you,” he replied amiably. “In fact, my agent called to warn me to be on my toes before you came to my office for the interview last week. She said you were a regular pit bull.”
“A pit bull, hmm?” Mallory ran her tongue over her teeth.
“Actually, she called you a rabid pit bull.” Logan chuckled as if to soften the description and added, “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Offended me?” She exhaled sharply. “Please. I’m flattered by her description.”
“I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” Still Mallory shrugged. “I’ll take it as one, anyway. In my line of work I believe in going for the throat. It’s what yields the best results.”
Her gaze lowered as she said this. Loosen that silk tie and undo the top button at his collar and Logan Bartholomew had one very delicious-looking neck.
“What about outside of work?”
His question startled her from her musings. Mallory’s gaze shot back to his face, where a potent and very male smile greeted her.
“Wh-what do you mean?” She hated that she’d actually stammered like a shy schoolgirl conversing with the football team’s star quarterback.
“What do you do after hours? You know, to unwind?” His expression was just this side of challenging.
“I tend to work late.” Then she went home alone, picking up some takeout on the way to her walk-up half a block from an El stop. Once she’d changed out of her work attire, she usually ate while watching the television before crashing for the night on the queen-size bed in her room. Alone.
“No…boyfriend?” he inquired.
Her eyes narrowed. “Not at the moment.” Though not for two years was closer to reality.
“Hmm.”
“Are you analyzing me, Doctor?” Mallory asked.
“Logan,” he reminded her with an affable grin.
“Yes, but at the moment you’re sounding an awful lot like someone with a degree in psychiatry.”
“Ah.” He grimaced, seemingly for effect. “Sorry about that. A hazard of my profession, I’m afraid. I just find it hard to believe that someone as bright, interesting and, well, attractive as you are isn’t in a serious relationship.”
“Good save.” She said it dryly in the hope of camouflaging the spurt of pleasure she’d experienced upon hearing his compliments.
Bright, interesting, attractive. What woman wouldn’t want to be considered all three, especially by a man who looked like this one?
The servers came around then with their salads and baskets of bread. Mallory selected a hard roll. At their first meeting, Logan’s time had been limited, so she’d only had the opportunity to ask him questions related to the commencement address. Now, under the guise of small talk, she asked him, “What about you? What do you do when you’re not at the radio station?”
“Well, for starters, I like to eat.” He forked up some mixed baby greens that were coated in raspberry vinaigrette.
“Yes, you look it.” Logan was a walking advertisement for physical fitness. If the man looked this good with his clothes on, she could only imagine how he appeared sans his professional attire. The thought had her coughing.
He swatted her back. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she managed. “Never better. You were saying something about eating?”
“I like food. For that reason, I learned how to cook.”
Mallory squinted at him. “Learned how to cook as in learned how to work the microwave oven or learned how to cook as in—”
“I know my way around the kitchen,” he inserted. “For instance, tonight I’m planning to grill a marinated flank steak and then pair it with rice noodles and a simple green salad.”
Her mouth watered. “Just for you?”
“Most likely.”
“I’m impressed.” And she was. “I’ve never gotten much beyond boiling water, which is actually pretty handy considering it’s one of the most important steps in making macaroni and cheese.”
“From a box,” he acknowledged. “There are other ways, you know.”
No, she didn’t know. In her albeit limited experience, all that was necessary was to bring the water to a boil and add the elbow noodles. When they were cooked, she drained the water, drizzled in a quarter cup of milk and stirred in the packet of a dry, cheeselike substance. Voilà. Dinner.
Logan was saying, “I’ve found cooking to be a surprising release for my creative energy.”
She found his admission surprising, as well, but as secrets went, well, news that Chicago’s new favorite son liked to play chef in his off hours wasn’t likely to score Mallory many points with her editor.
So, she asked, “What else do you do in your spare time? I know you don’t frequent the hot night spots.”
She’d checked.
“I’m a little old for that.”
“Thirty-six isn’t exactly ancient.” Especially when it came packaged in broad shoulders, narrow hips and topped off with a full head of gorgeous sandy hair.
The shoulders in question rose. “Night clubs aren’t really my thing.”
They weren’t Mallory’s, either. Sure, she liked to dance, sip a cocktail and have a good time every now and then, but she’d long ago grown out of the meat-market scene so many of the city’s hottest spots promoted. These days when she went out it was usually with a former college roommate for margaritas at a little Mexican restaurant that was one step above dive status.
“So, what is your thing?” she asked.
Logan said nothing for a long moment. Rather, he studied her with a gaze that was both challenging and assessing. Which is why Mallory found herself holding her breath until he finally replied, “I like to sail.”
The air whooshed from her lungs. “Sail. As in boats?” Mallory couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Unless he was going to tell her he kept narcotics in the hold this revelation was as newsworthy as the tidbit about playing chef.
“Is there any other kind?” He was smiling. “My parents had a catamaran when I was a boy. I loved being out on it. So, I bought a thirty-one-footer a few years back. I take her out on Lake Michigan as often as I can. Even so, the season’s just too damn short here.”
Mallory didn’t consider herself to be the romantic sort, yet she had no problem picturing Logan standing on a teak deck, manning the helm of a sailboat as the Chicago skyline grew small at his back and the deep aquamarine waters of the great lake beckoned.
“Sounds nice,” she said in a voice just this side of wispy. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“It is. Especially first thing in morning. There’s nothing like sitting on deck, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the sun crest the horizon.”
Mallory swallowed. Focus, she coached herself, when her mind threatened to meander a second time. “You make it sound like you sleep on your boat.”
“I’ve been known to. It’s peaceful out there, you know? None of the city noise. Only lapping water and the occasional cry of gulls.”
She thought about the El train that rumbled past her apartment at regular intervals. As far as she was concerned, what he spoke of was heaven. That was before she pictured him clad in…hmm…what did the good doctor wear to bed? That question brought another one to mind.
“Do you sleep there alone?” When his brows rose, she amended her query. “Who do you go sailing with?”
Logan’s laughter rumbled, deep and rich, dancing up her spine like a flat stone skipping over water. “Are you asking if I’m involved with someone?”
She cleared her throat, kept her tone reporter-neutral. “A lot of single women who read the Herald are dying to know just how eligible of a bachelor you are.”
“It’s that damned poll.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “Every man in Chicago wishes he were so lucky as to find his name on it.”
“Do I have you to thank for my…providence?” he inquired.
Mallory shook her head. “I wasn’t part of the Lifestyles team then.”
He was undeterred. “But are you one of them? You know, the voters, those women interested in my personal life?”
“Not a voter, no. But you bet I am interested in your personal life.” She pulled a pen and slim notepad from the purse hanging over the back of her chair. “So?”
Some of the good humor leaked out of Logan’s expression when he said, “I didn’t realize that you were sent to this luncheon to cover me.”
Was that censure she spied in his gaze or disappointment? Mallory didn’t like seeing either one, but neither was she willing to back down. “Rabid pit bull,” Logan’s agent had called her. Well, she’d earned the reputation for a reason.
“Sorry. Hazard of my profession. And I can’t help thinking you make a far more interesting story than the winner of this year’s Action Award.” She tilted her head in the direction of the head table. “You’re a local celebrity, Logan. Homegrown, selfmade and very successful. You’re also a bit mysterious. Other than where you earned your degree and some of your vital statistics, not much is known about you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I like my privacy.”
“Yes, and readers like to invade it.” Mallory angled her head to one side. “It’s good public relations to toss them a bone every now and then. You know, since they’re the ones who tune in to your radio program and all.” Going for the jugular, she added, “In a very real sense, you could say you owe your success to them.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” A smile spread slowly across his face. Lethal, Mallory thought again, as her hormones popped around inside her like the numbered balls in a bingo machine. She found herself actually leaning toward him, drawn the way a moth is to a flame. And so it came as little surprise when heat began to spiral through her.
“Well?” Was that her voice that sounded so breathless, so damned eager?
“I’m not…in a relationship.”
She moistened her lips, leaned back. “Ah.”
What exactly did that mean? Men, she knew firsthand, defined relationships differently than women did.
“Any other questions?” Logan asked.
Mallory had dozens of them, and the man, her prime-rib ticket to workplace redemption, was offering her the opportunity to ask them. Unfortunately, with him looking at her in that assessing way, her mind had gone blank. She shook her head slowly, thankful when their entrees arrived and saved her from appearing tongue-tied, which, for the first time in her professional life, she was.
They ate their rubber chicken and overcooked rice pilaf in virtual silence; all the while Mallory recalled his mention of grilled marinated flank steak. It was almost a relief when the servers cleared away their plates and the award program began. Except that, as the president of the women’s club blathered on about the recipient’s many virtues, from the corner of her eye, Mallory spied Logan watching her.
What on earth was he thinking?
Logan studied Mallory. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was bright, interesting and attractive.
Attractive. Hell, she was downright lovely with all that rich brown hair framing an oval face that was dominated by the most amazing pair of big dark eyes he’d ever seen. Despite her physical beauty, it was her personality that captivated him. He liked smart women. The smarter the better. Add in pretty and, well, it was a lethal combination as far as he was concerned. Mallory certainly hit the mark. That in itself was a problem.
Logan had met her kind once before, years ago. He’d fallen hard at the time, so hard he’d almost made it to the altar, ready and willing to promise his undying love and devotion. A month before their nuptials, however, his fiancée had called off the wedding. Felicia had claimed to need time and space. She’d needed to think, to reflect. What became clear was she hadn’t needed him. She married someone else.
It had been nearly a decade since then. Logan had heard from her only once, just after her wedding. She’d sent him a letter, the postmark read Portland, Oregon. In the brief note, she’d asked him to forgive her, but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t. She’d included no forwarding address or phone number. He’d taken the hint. He’d been wary of commitment ever since.
That didn’t mean he didn’t like women or spending time with them. It just meant he didn’t let things progress into anything serious.
He glanced over at Mallory. She was scribbling down notes, seemingly absorbed in the award recipient’s less-than-exciting speech. As he watched her, his interest, among other things, was definitely piqued.
Rabid pit bull.
Logan’s agent had been adamant that he should steer clear of this particular reporter. Mallory had a reputation for ruining people, Nina Lowman insisted. Maybe it was the masochist in him that considered her reputation a challenge. Besides, he could handle himself around reporters. He’d been doing it enough since his radio call-in program had staked out the top spot in the ratings.
So, as the luncheon wrapped up, Logan leaned over to Mallory and asked, “Since turnabout is fair play, I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“What are you doing later this afternoon?”
She blinked, before her eyes narrowed. Why was it he found her suspicion sexy?
“Filing a story. Why?”
“How long will that take?”
“For this?” Her lips twisted, showing her distaste. It wasn’t the first time he wondered why a reporter with her reputation had been sent to cover a minor story. “I need a couple of quotes from the winner, a quote from someone on the award committee and to tap out a couple of paragraphs summing up why the winner was selected.”
“In other words, you could write it in your sleep,” he concluded.
She rewarded his blunt assessment with a smile. “Once I do a couple of brief interviews it should take me half an hour, tops. Why?”
Logan was playing with fire, which wasn’t like him. While he liked challenges, he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks. Still, he heard himself ask, “Have you ever seen the city from the water?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Well, if you want to, I dock my sailboat, the Tangled Sheets, at the yacht club. I’m planning to take her out around five.”
Something flashed in her dark eyes. Interest? Excitement? Briefly he wondered whether it was the reporter or the woman responsible for whatever emotion it was. To his surprise, he found he didn’t care.
“Which yacht club?” she asked.
Logan wasn’t willing to make it too easy for her. So he stood and, giving her a salute, walked backward a few steps toward the exit.
Just before turning he called, “You’re a reporter, Mallory. If you really want to meet me, you’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Two
DESPITE changing into a lightweight blouse and a pair of cropped trousers, Mallory was wilting in the late-afternoon heat by the time she arrived at Logan’s slip at the Chicago Yacht Club. It didn’t help that she’d nearly jogged the half-dozen blocks from the El stop. She had a car, but she often found public transportation less of a hassle than trying to find a place to park.
After leaving the luncheon, she’d hurried through her story, filing it after only a cursory second read and a run of her computer’s spellchecker. It wasn’t like her to rush, especially for a man. But then Logan was far more than that to her. He was a story.
Her story took her breath away when she caught sight of him standing with his feet planted shoulder-width apart on the deck of a sailboat. Behind him sunlight reflected off the smooth, aquamarine surface of the lake, making him look like something straight out of a fantasy.
His back was to her, a cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, so she took her time studying him. He’d changed his clothing, too. Instead of the pricy suit he’d worn earlier, he was attired in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off a pair of muscled arms and casual tan slacks that fit nicely across a very fine and firm-looking butt. Mallory fanned herself. Damned heat. Though it was only June, the mercury had to be pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
On the barest wisp of a breeze, Logan’s side of the conversation floated to her.
“You don’t need to worry…No. Really. Do you know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” His laughter rumbled deep and rich before he continued. “Exactly…Yeah, I’ll call you.”
He said goodbye and flipped his phone closed. As soon as he turned and spotted Mallory, male interest lit up his eyes and a flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
He coughed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Obviously.”
His flush deepened.
Mallory could have pretended not to have overheard anything. That would have been the polite thing to do. But she was a reporter, which meant curiosity trumped politeness.
“So, which one am I?” When he frowned, she added helpfully, “Friend or enemy?”
She gave him credit. Logan pulled out of his flaming, death spiral with amazing speed and agility. But then, he was a veteran of talk radio and live broadcasts, which meant he was good at thinking on his feet.
Walking to the rail, he asked, “Which one do you consider yourself?”
“Ah. Very clever, turning the question around. Is that what they teach you to do in psychiatry school?”
“Among other things,” he allowed.
Whatever remained of his embarrassment had evaporated completely by the time his hand clasped Mallory’s to help her aboard. His palm was warm against hers, pleasantly so despite the heat. It seemed a shame when he removed it, though she supposed it would have been awkward if he had continued the contact.
“So,” she said, filling in the silence.
“So.” One side of his mouth lifted, but he backed up a step, and she liked knowing that she could keep him as off balance as he made her. Tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming or that you’d be able to find me.”
Though the city had more than one yacht club, it hadn’t taken much effort. His boat was registered. Besides, the Chicago Yacht Club, which dated to the late eighteen hundreds, was exclusive. It seemed the most likely spot for an up-and-coming celebrity who cherished his privacy.
Mallory nodded toward the bottle of red wine that was open and breathing on a small table topside. “I’d say you knew that I would.”
He shrugged. “I was hopeful. Besides, I was banking on your journalistic instincts.”
“I bank on them, too, since they rarely fail me.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“You tell me,” she replied.
“I guess that depends on why you’re here.”
“I was invited,” she reminded him.
“So you were.”
In truth, Mallory was still perplexed by
Logan’s spontaneous offer of an afternoon sail. It was one of the reasons she’d come. What exactly did the man have in mind?
“Why?” The question rent the silence with all the delicacy of a gull’s cry.
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you invite me?”
“Well, that’s blunt.” He chuckled.
Mallory shrugged. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” With an index finger, he tapped his cell phone. “You know, my agent wanted to know the answer to that very question, too.”
“What did you tell her, besides not to worry?”
His brows furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t have an answer for her.”
“Besides the friends-and-enemies adage,” Mallory remarked.
“Besides that,” he agreed. “So, why did you come? And, yes, I’m turning the question around.”
“Curiosity,” she replied honestly. “How could I decline when I find you so intriguing?”
“I’m flattered, I think. Especially if that’s the woman speaking rather than the reporter.”
“They’re one and the same, remember?”
Logan’s gaze intensified. “Are you sure about that?”
She was, or at least she had been until he’d pinned her with that stare and baldly asked. The boat moved under her feet, a slight rolling motion that reminded her of the water bed she’d had as a teenager. She’d slept like a baby back then. These days she was lucky to snatch a few hours of uninterrupted slumber before her eyes snapped open and her mind began clicking away like a slide projector, flashing the items on her current to-do list at work along with the goals related to her long-range career plans.
“I’d love a glass of that wine,” she said, opting to change the subject.
“I wouldn’t mind some myself.” As he poured it, he said, “How exactly did you find me? I only ask so I can prevent others from doing the same.”
“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.”
“Why? A sheet is another name for a sail, Mallory.” His face was the picture of innocence now, but it was plain he understood the double entendre because when he turned to retrieve two coffee cups from a cupboard the grin returned.
“Well, someone has either taken excellent care of this boat or it’s been restored.”
“The latter,” Logan confirmed. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
He handed her a steaming cup and poured one for himself. Leaning back against the sink, he said, “It took me an entire winter’s worth of weekends after I purchased her—” he cleared his throat “—I mean, Duke, to finish the overhaul. I basically gutted the place and started over. And I’m still puttering most weekends.”
He glanced around the salon and nodded. Puttering still or not, his expression made it clear he was pleased with his progress so far. Mallory could understand why. Logan might not look like the sort of man who would know a hammer from a ham sandwich, but obviously he could hold his own with the guys on HGTV. Power suits and power tools didn’t normally go together. Questions bubbled.
“Where did you learn carpentry and—” she motioned with her hand “—how to do repair and maintenance?”
“One of my dad’s hobbies is woodworking, and he’s always been good at home repair. My brother and I spent a lot of time with him in his workshop, helping him put things together. I picked up a few tips along the way.”
“I guess so.”
“You’re surprised.”
“Maybe a little. You don’t look like the sort of man who would be…”
“Good with his hands?” he finished.
He set his coffee aside and held up both hands palm side out. His fingers were long, elegant, but the palms were calloused. The man was definitely hard to figure out, but she wasn’t trying at the moment. She was staring at those work-roughened hands and wondering how they would feel…on her skin.
Mallory swallowed and ordered herself to stay focused. “Why not just buy something brand-new?”
“I don’t know. I guess you could say I prefer a challenge.”
The way his eyes lit made Mallory wonder if that was what he considered her to be.
Logan was saying, “Besides, she had great bones and an even better history. Her previous owner had sailed her from Massachusetts all the way to Saint Thomas the year before I got her and nearly lost her to a hurricane along the way.”
“So, your boat is a survivor and you had a hand in resurrecting her…him.”
“Duke.”
“Duke,” she repeated.
His laughter was dry. “Yes, but I can assure you I don’t suffer from a God complex.”
“Then why did you get into psychiatry? Didn’t you want to save people?”
“I wanted to help people.” Oddly, he frowned after saying so. He sipped his coffee. The frown was gone when he added, “Most people have the tools to turn their lives around all on their own. They just need a little guidance recognizing those tools and learning how to use them.”
“Good analogy. I guess you really are the son of a carpenter.”
“Yeah.” He laughed and was once again his sexy self when he asked, “Ready for that sail?”
“Of course. That’s why I came.”
Chapter Three
LOGAN used the motor to maneuver the boat out of its slip at the yacht club. Once away from the shore, he cut the engine and enlisted Mallory to help him hoist the sails. He could have done it by himself. That’s what he usually did, even though it was a lot of work for one person and took some of the pleasure out of the pastime.
Pleasure.
That’s what he was experiencing now as he and Mallory stood together on the deck while the boat sliced neatly through the water. He rarely shared Tangled Sheets with anyone. It was his private retreat, his getaway from not only the hustle of the city, but from the fame he’d chased so successfully and the reporters who now chased him. Reporters who were much less dangerous than Mallory Stevens was…at least to hear his agent tell it. Nina Lowman had made Logan promise to call him later in the evening, apparently as proof that he’d survived the encounter. Even so, he didn’t regret his decision to ask Mallory aboard.
He attributed the invitation to the fact that he’d been without the company of a woman for several months. Scratch that. He’d been without the company of an interesting woman for several months, maybe even for several years. Logan’s last fling, and fling was almost too generous a term for it, had been with a socialite who’d turned out to be every bit as vapid and vacant as she was gorgeous. Tonya may have been stimulating in many regards, but conversation wasn’t one of them. Logan enjoyed smart women. He enjoyed savvy women. Women who were as adept at playing chess as they were strip poker. Logan would bet his last stitch of clothing that Mallory could hold her own in both games.
So it really was no surprise he was enjoying himself this evening. The bonus was that the feeling appeared to be mutual. Glancing over, he noticed that Mallory was leaning against the rail. Her eyes were closed, and the fine line between her brows had disappeared. Even with her face turned to the wind, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
For the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly relaxed. And all the more lovely for it, which was saying a lot. The woman was naturally beautiful to begin with: fresh-faced, unmade, unpretentiously pretty. Of course, she could afford to have a light hand with makeup. Her lashes were dark and ridiculously thick and long. They fringed a set of eyes that were rich with secrets. No other adornment was necessary.
A man could get sucked into those eyes if he wasn’t careful. It was a good thing Logan had no intention of being lulled into complacency, even if he did enjoy the challenge of staying one step ahead of her.
The eyes in question opened. If Mallory was unnerved to find him studying her, it didn’t show. She regarded him in return—boldly, bluntly and not the least bit embarrassed or uncomfortable. Logan swallowed, experiencing again that low tug of interest that seemed to define the time he spent in her presence.
“I probably should apologize for staring,” he admitted. He waited a beat before adding, “And if you were another kind of woman, I would.”
Her brows rose fractionally. “Another kind of woman?”
“The coy sort.”
“Coy.” Her lips pursed. “That’s not a word one hears often nowadays. It’s rather old-fashioned.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not old-fashioned.”
No, indeed. Mallory was worldly, at least in the sense that she grasped nuances, gestures. She wasn’t hard, though. He recalled the way she’d looked when speaking about her parents’ divorce. Then she had seemed almost vulnerable.
“Nor am I coy,” she continued now.
It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was insulted or not. Logan decided she wasn’t. “Which is why I don’t feel the need to stand on pretense around you. I can say what I mean.”
“Hmm.” It was an arousing sound that drew his gaze to her mouth. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked. When he glanced up and met her gaze, the amusement shimmering in her eyes told him she’d already made up her mind.
“A good thing. Definitely a good thing.”
She laughed. The sound was low and throaty. “I don’t know. I think I might prefer some pretense every now and then. I get so little of it. Subterfuge, sure.” She exhaled. “That’s par for the course in my line of work.”
“But we’re not talking about your work.” Interesting, Logan thought, how it kept coming back to that. Interesting and a little unnerving.
Mallory smiled. “Oh, that’s right. We’re talking about pretense.”
Not just talking about it, he thought. Well, two could play the game. Logan decided to up the ante. “Are you saying you want me to pretend that I don’t find you as sexy as hell?”
She blinked. He’d caught her off guard. He’d done it a few times in their relatively short acquaintance. Perhaps it was his male ego talking, but he liked knowing he could manage it.
“Well?” he prodded when she remained quiet.
“I’m trying to think of a response.”
“And you can’t?” That came as a surprise.
Mallory cleared her throat. “Well, you have to admit, Doc, yours is a loaded question.”
Just the sort of question she was very good at asking, but he kept the observation to himself. Instead, Logan snorted. “And here I thought you weren’t one to act coy.”
“Well, if I tell you no, you’ll think I’m playing games, but if I say yes, you’ll accuse me of being vain.”
“Will I?”
She ignored his question. “You’ve painted me into a corner. I don’t like corners.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, you did.”
He flashed a grin. “Okay, maybe I did. But in my defense, I find myself immensely curious as to what your answer will be.”
The wind tugged at her hair, sending several strands of it across her face. Mallory pushed them aside with the palm of her hand. The gesture was practical and…“Tell me, Doc, what woman doesn’t enjoy being called sexy?”
It was a question rather than an actual answer, but Logan let it pass.
“For the record, I believe I said ‘sexy as hell.’ If you’re going to quote me…” He left the sentence unfinished in part because the words were unnecessary, but mostly because her complexion paled. When she stumbled back a step, he reached out to steady her. “Mallory? Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She moved back another step to lean against the rail, forcing him to release her arm. “I…I guess I don’t have my sea legs yet.” He didn’t think that was what had caused her momentary weakness, but she was saying, “In response to your finding me ‘sexy as hell,’ what am I supposed to do?”
“I have a couple of suggestions.” He bobbed his brows to lighten the moment and was rewarded with a laugh.
“I hate to break it to you, but coy isn’t another word for promiscuous.”
Logan snapped his fingers in a show of disappointment. “Damn.”
“You know, if I thought you really meant that, I’d have to toss you overboard.”
He had little doubt she would try and perhaps even succeed despite the fact she was no match for him physically. “How would you get back to the yacht club then?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, I’d manage.”
Even from their short acquaintance, Logan could tell that about her. Mallory was a survivor. That caused him to sober. He’d met survivors before. He’d counseled a good number of them in his private practice before he’d taken his profession to the airwaves. While he admired their ability to persevere and overcome, in some cases survivors could be very solitary. They didn’t need anyone.
“It’s time to head back.”
“Already? You know, I was just kidding about leaving you bobbing in Lake Michigan.” She laughed again.
Logan joined in. “I know.”
“But I’ve made you nervous.” The line returned between her brows.
“Not because of that remark,” he admitted.
“Hmm.” There was that sexy sound again.
“There’s not much daylight left and I’m not a fan of sailing in the dark. Besides, I have some prep work to finish for tomorrow morning’s show.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication. In addition to taking listeners’ calls, Logan included a segment on general mental-health topics. Tomorrow’s, appropriately enough, was panic attacks.
He prepared to bring the boat around. Mallory helped. In fact, she insisted on lending a hand, as if it was vital that she know what to do to return to the safety of the shore. Survivor, he thought again.
“Watch for the boom,” he called. “Or you’ll be the one overboard.”
“Aye-aye,” she called, offering a salute even as she ducked to avoid being struck.
When the Chicago skyline with the sun peeking around the skyscrapers was before them, she whistled. “Talk about a milliondollar view.”
“It’s something all right. Want to take a turn at the helm?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I never kid when it comes to my boat.”
“Then, yes.” She stepped into place, legs splayed shoulder width apart, hands at the ten and two positions on the wooden wheel he’d spent hours sanding and staining. Though there was no need, Logan moved in behind her and set his hands over hers.
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.
“Sure.” He dipped his head low enough so his jaw scraped her cheek and whispered into her ear, “I’m just looking for a good excuse to touch you.”
Was that a shiver he felt? It was hard to say since Mallory’s voice sounded perfectly normal when she asked, “Do you need an excuse to do that?”
“Apparently.”
“Sad.” She made a tsking sound. “Perhaps you should see someone about your…hang-up around competent women.”
“Hang-up?”
She shrugged. “I know this famous doctor who might be able to offer some advice.”
“Really?” He let his cheek brush against hers. “Should I make an appointment?”
“No. He’s much too busy to take appointments these days. Famous, remember?”
“Ah. Right.”
“But you could place a call to his radio program. It airs weekday mornings, top of the FM dial. All of Chi-town tunes in to listen to it.”
“Don’t forget the rest of the greater metropolitan area,” he added.
“How could I? He’s the savior of their maddening morning commute. Who knows how many cases of road rage he’s nipped in the bud with his calming words of wisdom. Hundreds would be my guess.”
“I’d venture thousands,” Logan said. “No wonder he’s said to be in contract negotiations for a nationally syndicated television show.”
Mallory went still. The teasing humor was gone from her tone when she said, “Really?”
God, was the woman ever off the clock? “That’s the rumor, anyway. Sadly, it’s unconfirmed.”
Logan felt a little guilty for baiting Mallory until she leaned back against his chest. Then he just felt…her. More precisely, he felt the vibration of her laughter. “Well, I’m sure the doctor can help you.”
Dark hair tickled his jaw. “Why are you sure?”
“From the press releases I’ve read on this guy, he can all but walk on water.”
He’d seen those releases, which had come courtesy of his agent and the station’s marketing team. He knew what Mallory meant. The accolades were true but they made him uneasy, for the very fact that while he’d once believed he truly had a gift for helping people, these days he sometimes felt all he did was entertain them for a few hours of product-sponsored programming.
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