Unfair!

Jenna wanted to cry, “Stop!” But the word simply wouldn’t come.

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

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

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

She stared at him in mute misery. The dark, heavy truth descended on her in full force. She might as well acknowledge the terrible inevitability of this moment, that something was breaking like a cord in her mind.

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

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

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

Dear Reader,

It’s wonderful to feel safe in the life you’ve built for yourself. We should all be so lucky as to have stress-free, secure, peaceful lives that never cause us a moment of concern.

But sometimes that kind of complacent existence can get…well, boring. You get stuck in a rut. You never feel challenged. You stop taking chances. And the people you love? They think they know you inside and out.

Which is why sometimes your life needs a swift kick in the pants. Or, as in the case of my heroine, you need to shake things up a bit. That’s what Jenna Rawlins decides to do one night when she meets Mark Bishop. Something new. Something unexpected and out of character. And that adventurous decision results in big changes in both their lives.

Resolving their problems was a great way for me to shake up my own little world, too. I’ve never written a story about two people who are drawn to one another so quickly, with such life-altering consequences. I hope I’ve met the challenge, and that you’ll find Jenna and Mark’s story interesting and fun.

May all your challenges in life be exciting, rewarding and, as always, may they make for wonderful stories!

Sincerely,

Ann Evans

After That Night
Ann Evans

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my good friends Lanny Reddick and Sherri Angell,

who never say “No” when I want to play “What if…?”

I couldn’t do it without you.

Well…I could, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

JENNA RAWLINS really disliked Atlanta’s Regent Street Grill. The restaurant, situated in the upscale suburb of Buckhead, was too sleek, too cold and too uncomfortable. The waiters thought they were doing you a favor by taking your order. And the prices!

Jenna swallowed as her eyes drifted down a dessert menu as thick as a Russian novel. Where did they get the nerve to charge so much?

Of course, she had to admit that Vic was right about one thing. This place was the latest trendy eatery in the city for that important business lunch. Already two of the magazine’s advertising clients had stopped by their table to say hello and buss everyone on the cheek. But honestly, with the small portions they served, what good did it do you to make contacts in the restaurant if you were too weak from hunger to remember their names?

She must have been scowling, because Victoria Estabrook, seated beside her, snatched the menu out of her hand and closed it with a snap.

“Stop that!” Vic commanded. “I don’t want to hear about how the company can’t afford this right now. This is a celebration, and we’re all having dessert.”

They were celebrating the anniversary of Fairy Tale Weddings, the specialty magazine she, Victoria and their friend Lauren Hoffman had founded three years ago. As a CPA and the person who kept the books for the magazine, Jenna knew perfectly well whether the company budget could stand the cost of an expensive lunch for its three partners. It could. Just not too many of them. Vic, however, had been in a contrary mood all through lunch, so it was probably pointless to argue.

“I didn’t say a word,” Jenna said.

“You didn’t have to. We can see it on your face. It’s always given you away.” Victoria looked at Lauren, seated across the table. “Am I right?”

Lauren offered an agreeable shrug and sent Jenna an apologetic glance. “She’s got you there, kiddo. How do you think we could always tell when things weren’t going well with Jack?”

Jenna didn’t want to talk about her ex-husband. More than five minutes, and she’d have a headache for certain. “Be nice, you two,” she warned. “I’m still trying to get over last night’s argument with Dad.”

Victoria tossed down her soiled napkin. “I’ll tell you how to get over it. Tell him that if he wants to continue to have you and his grandsons in his life, there are some opinions he needs to keep to himself. And anything involving Jack-ass Rawlins, no matter how true, is one of them.”

Lauren and Jenna exchanged knowing smiles. This was the kind of advice they could expect from Vic, who’d been born assertive and who resented anyone trying to tell her how to live. But Jenna wasn’t like that. She might be a fully grown woman of twenty-eight, but she couldn’t imagine talking to her father that way in a million years. He’d probably have a coronary right on the spot.

Still, it would have been nice to find a better way to handle the “men” in her life. Taking care of two rambunctious young sons, living back home with Dad since her divorce, having two protective older brothers offering more advice than Dear Abby…

The truth was, it could make you nuts. She knew they only wanted the best for her. She knew they all loved her. But… Was she the world’s worse mother/sister/daughter to sometimes wish she could just pack her bags, hop in the car and never look back? Probably.

Instead of commenting, she watched as Victoria motioned for their waiter, Dexter, who’d taken their lunch orders once a week for the past six months. He waltzed around several tables to get back to them.

“Tell us what’s good today, Dexter,” Victoria demanded.

“The mousse is very refreshing,” he suggested brightly. “And easy on the diet if you’re watching your calories this week.”

“Six dollars for pudding,” Jenna couldn’t resist muttering. “Ridiculous.”

Victoria shot her an evil look before smiling back up at Dexter. “We’ll all have the Chocolate Sin cake,” she told him. And probably because she felt pricked a little by that “watching your calories” remark, she added, “Make sure they put extra whipped cream on top of mine, darling.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. He knew who to count on for a big tip.

Once Dexter left, Lauren leaned across the table. “What’s bothering you, Vic?”

“What makes you think anything’s bothering me?”

“Because besides dessert, you had a fried appetizer, a buttered roll, a salad without the dressing on the side and a dinner-size portion of the lamb. You only overeat when you’re worried or angry about something. So what is it?”

Victoria tossed back the last of her chardonnay, then poured herself another glass from the bottle they’d ordered. “It’s Cara,” she said morosely. “She wants to quit school and traipse off to Europe with that moron she’s dating. She’s not listening to me at all. I swear, if I could convince her to come home, I’d lock her in the attic and toss the key off the top of Stone Mountain.”

Jenna laughed. “And I thought I was the only one being tortured by overprotective older siblings. Poor Cara.”

“You know I’m not like that. But after Mom and Dad died, I worked hard to get her future settled. I won’t let her toss away law school just because this guy gives her multiple orgasms.”

Lauren’s brows arched. “Multiple? Wow. Sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

“Well, he’s not. He’s crude and ill-mannered and unemployed. Last week he almost talked her into having a nipple pierced.”

“Ouch!” Lauren said with a grimace.

“I’m not a prude, but honestly, he’s…” Victoria made a low, annoyed sound and raked her fingers through her long hair. “Forget him. I refuse to let him spoil our celebration. Now where were we?”

Again Jenna exchanged a glance with Lauren. She was concerned for Vic, but they both knew her well. Vic wouldn’t elaborate further if she didn’t want to. There would be another time, another place to tackle the problem of free-spirited baby sister Cara who just wouldn’t listen to reason.

Lauren said calmly, “You were telling us about the one who bit the dust.”

Victoria turned her attention back to the file folder she’d set on the table in front of her. She opened it, and Jenna saw that it contained the guts of an article the magazine had run the year before—a fluff piece listing the Ten Most Eligible Bachelors in the South. Lauren had taken the pictures. Victoria had written and edited the text.

Jenna vaguely remembered that it had been well received. No reader really expected it to help them catch one of these paragons of manhood. But there wasn’t an unmarried woman in the world who wasn’t at least curious to know what kind of high-end matrimonial material was out there.

That was the heart of Fairy Tale Weddings’ appeal—dreams and fantasies. Besides the latest trends in catering and wedding attire, it specialized in the fantastic. Honeymoon locations that no one else had found and spoiled yet. Weddings that could be performed in mountaintop yurts or underwater on a sunken ship. And though the publication was a pretty small fish in the publishing pond, FTW, as they referred to it, had seemed to find its niche at last.

“So which one is getting married?” Jenna asked, leaning over to get a better look.

Truthfully, she wasn’t all that curious. She might be an equal partner in the magazine, but most of the time she was strictly back office: paying the bills, budgeting and because she was so savvy with a computer, helping with the layout of each bimonthly issue. Occasionally she helped out in other areas, but the content of FTW was generally left up to Vic.

And since her divorce last year, Jenna found that the idea of men and dating and all that matrimonial hype had about as much appeal as yesterday’s cold soup.

Victoria sorted through the stack of glossies with their attached profiles, then edged the photos apart. Lauren had done a great job with them. Ten gorgeous-looking men surrounded by boats, planes and polo ponies marched in a line toward Jenna’s side of the table.

“Number six,” Victoria said, rescuing one picture from the row. “Mark Bishop.”

Lauren moved her chair so she could see better. “I remember him. Ivy League college. Newspaper business. A very intense way of sizing you up. I’m surprised he’s the first to get married.”

“Why?” Jenna asked.

The picture of Mark Bishop revealed a good-looking, dark-haired man in a custom-made suit. Unlike most of the other subjects, he wasn’t surrounded by the playthings of the rich. He sat perched on the edge of a boardroom table, arms crossed, unsmiling. His eyes were locked with the camera in a way that made him seem dangerous, in spite of the tasteful civility of his clothing and surroundings.

Lauren pursed her lips as though searching her memory. “He wasn’t very cooperative about having his picture taken. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other whether women found him attractive. Wasn’t that your take, Vic?”

“I don’t think he believed our readers would find him interesting.”

“Too shy?” Jenna asked. The picture didn’t seem to indicate a guy who was at all reticent.

Lauren took a sip of wine. “Too arrogant, if you ask me.”

Victoria seemed to mull over that comment. “No, not arrogant,” she said at last. “Just very self-assured. He only agreed to the interview as a favor to Debra Lee.”

“Debra Lee Goodson?” Jenna asked in surprise.

“How many Debra Lees do you know?” Vic asked with a smile. “When I first had the idea for the article, I called every woman I could think of who might know someone, and she suggested her boss. She didn’t want to ask him at first, but eventually she caved in.”

“That’s because she adores you,” Lauren pointed out. “If you asked her to take a swim in toxic waste, she’d dig out her snorkel and fins.”

That was certainly true. Back in high school, Debra Lee Goodson had idolized Vic, who had taken the gawky teenager on as her pet project and been the one to introduce her to her future husband.

Still, it didn’t sound as though Mark Bishop had wanted to do the original interview at all. Debra Lee, persuasive and extremely loyal, had probably been impossible to turn down.

Jenna flipped up the picture to scan the attached bio and Mark Bishop’s answers to the list of questions that had been posed to every one of the Ten Most Eligible. Thirty-two. A Leo. Educated at Princeton. No siblings.

Aloud she read, “‘My life’s passion is…my work’?” Jenna smiled at her friends. “Gosh, every woman’s dream. A workaholic.”

Lauren frowned. “Yes, and if I remember correctly, Debra Lee shared with him a few of our more embarrassing tales of adolescence. The nitwit.”

“He found them amusing,” Victoria said. She seemed determined to raise Mark Bishop’s profile. For my benefit? Jenna wondered.

Lauren shook her head. “Ha! He blew us off professionally. I got the distinct impression he thought we were goofy, naive teenagers who grew up to be goofy, naive adults.”

Jenna looked at Vic. “And you think he’ll make an interesting follow-up piece?”

A tiny frown marred Victoria’s brow. “He’s the first one to get engaged. I think it will be interesting to follow each of these guys as they come off the list. What made them choose the woman they’re going to marry? What made—” she checked the back of the profile, where she’d added a notation or two “—Shelby Elaine Winston the one for Mark Bishop? Why her?”

Lauren snorted. “Why should we care? So the rest of us can copy good old Shelby and hope that one day we’ll snag a Mr. Right for ourselves?” She shook her head in disgust, sending loose auburn curls over one shoulder. “God, sometimes I think we need to give up on that fantasy.”

“What makes you think some of us haven’t?” Jenna surprised herself by saying. Damn Jack Rawlins! He really had soured her on any notion of happily-ever-after, hadn’t he?

Victoria looked genuinely disconcerted. “What’s wrong with you two? We’re all firm believers in fairy-tale endings, remember?”

“Not lately,” Lauren said, playing with her wineglass.

Something in her tone made Jenna wonder just how much trouble there was in Lauren’s current relationship. Earlier she’d mentioned that Brad had begun to pressure her to make more of a commitment. She’d responded by taking an assignment for a travel magazine that would have her flying to New Zealand next week. Get some breathing distance between them, she’d said.

Vic cocked her head at Lauren. “Trouble in paradise?”

Lauren didn’t pretend not to understand. From the moment they’d met in grade school there’d been few secrets between the three friends. “Brad’s driving me crazy,” she admitted.

“In what way?” Jenna asked.

“In a dozen different ways. Everything he does lately gets on my nerves. Did you ever notice how many times he ends a sentence with ‘…and so on and so on and so forth’? He’ll be telling a story, and it’s as though he’s suddenly lost interest. Then I’m just supposed to guess how the rest of it goes. And if I say anything, he looks at me like I’m an imbecile.” Lauren narrowed her eyes at Jenna. “Why are you smiling?”

“I was just wishing I’d had that problem with Jack. He always finished his stories. And then he’d repeat them again and again. I could recite them in my sleep. He never shut up.” She caught sight of Lauren’s scowl. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Lauren played with her spoon, still frowning. “He attacks his spaghetti,” she said in a soft voice.

Vic sat forward. “I beg your pardon?”

Lauren looked at her friends impatiently, then made quick slicing motions with her silverware. “He attacks it. Like it’s a plate of snakes. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a pasta spoon right beside his plate. He just starts whacking at it with a knife and fork until every piece is no more than an inch long. It’s disgusting to watch.”

“Sounds serious,” Vic said, barely suppressing a grin.

“Wait till Chef Boyardee hears about this,” Jenna added.

Lauren gave them both a stern look. “I know what you’re thinking. But little irritations like that can really kill a relationship, you know?”

Jenna nodded sympathetically. “Mom used to say you could sit on a mountain, but you couldn’t sit on a tack.”

Although, she had the sudden, wry memory that little transgressions hadn’t been the death of her own marriage. Forget how Jack had repeated stories or treated his spaghetti or neglected to cap the toothpaste. That long-term affair with his secretary had pretty much distracted her from small annoyances.

She pushed thoughts of Jack to the back of her mind and tried to concentrate on Lauren’s dilemma. Both Jenna and Vic had heard this same sort of complaint from their friend before.

Lauren claimed to love her independence so much that the idea of settling down with one man horrified her. Her career as a freelance photographer had really taken off in the past few years, and she now made a comfortable living regularly contributing to several different publications. While photo assignments for FTW were still a top priority, she loved flying out of the country on a moment’s notice, marching through steamy jungles and climbing steep mountains in search of just the right shot. Where would a husband and kids and a picket fence fit into that kind of life? she’d once asked her two best friends.

It was Jenna’s private theory, however, that a loss of independence wasn’t Lauren’s real fear at all. Jenna would have bet money that Lauren was more afraid of duplicating her parents’ disastrous marriage.

Her mother was on her fourth husband. And Lauren’s father, husband number one, was still referred to in their old neighborhood as Womanizing Walter. He’d been the first guy in Bear Hollow to greet any new neighbor with an armload of lawn-care products for the men—and eventually, a key to the nearest motel for young and willing wives. The scandalous details of the Hoffmans’ divorce had set the neighborhood on its ear for months.

“Has Brad asked you to marry him?” Jenna inquired.

Lauren stiffened and rolled her eyes. “No. But I think he’s going to soon. Hell, I think he’s in love with me.”

Vic placed her hand over Lauren’s. “Lauren, you know what you’re doing, don’t you? Every time a guy gets too close you start running.”

Jenna sat back in her chair, a little unnerved. “What’s wrong with us?” she asked. “Vic’s right. I can remember a time when we would have been dancing on this table at the thought of someone being in love with us. We’re only twenty-eight. This can’t be it for romance.”

Vic, who had recently broken off with her boyfriend of six months, shook her head vehemently. “Of course it isn’t. Let’s just acknowledge that we’re all going through a bad patch right now. But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up on finding true love. Or it finding us. Haven’t we built a business on the idea of romance and grand passion?”

They fell silent for a few moments, each of them caught in her own thoughts. Dexter approached the table with the dessert tray and placed a dish of sinful-looking chocolate cake in front of Jenna. She smiled her thanks. She had to admit, expensive and as calorie-laden as it was, it looked wonderful.

Vic pushed her fork into the moist slice of cake before her. “I’m not going to spoil a perfectly divine dessert with talk about how pathetic our love lives are.” She tapped a finger against the nearest photograph on the table. “I still think the women who read FTW want to believe there’s a Ten Most Eligible out there for them. Wouldn’t you like a few hints that might allow you to snag one of these guys?”

“I suppose that would depend on how much of myself I’d have to give up in order to get him,” Jenna said.

Catching sight of the picture of Mark Bishop, Dexter’s eyes lit up. “Oh, honey, I wouldn’t let him get away. Do whatever it takes. Get a complete makeover if you have to. He’s a hottie.”

They all laughed and the mood at the table lightened. After Dexter sashayed off, Jenna said, “Well, whatever secrets the happy couple want to share, I’m sure you’ll put a great spin on it, Vic.”

A short silence fell as the three women took their first bites of dessert, sighs of appreciation escaping their lips. As she slipped her fork into the cake for a second mouthful, Victoria looked at Jenna and said, “Actually I’m not going to do the article. You are.”

Jenna frowned. “Me? What are you talking about?”

“I want you to do the piece.”

Jenna shook her head. She reached over and pushed Victoria’s wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “No more wine for you.”

“I’m serious.”

The cake in Jenna’s mouth suddenly became flavorless. She gave Victoria an incredulous look, though she noticed that Lauren didn’t seem completely surprised. “Why aren’t you going?” And then, because she realized that Vic was serious, she added, “I can’t go in your place.”

“Why not? You have perfectly acceptable skills. You did that article last Christmas about gift suggestions.”

“You know very well that was a last-minute filler, and it amounted to no more than three paragraphs. That doesn’t make me a journalist.”

“It still required a way with words. Which you have.”

Jenna set down her fork, her dessert forgotten. “Yeah, and I’m thinking of a few choice ones right now.”

She looked across the table at Lauren for support. The redhead was mysteriously quiet. No help from that quarter evidently.

“Absolutely not,” Jenna said firmly. “No.”

Victoria lifted her head, all haughty tyranny. “Technically, I’m your boss. I order you to do it for the sake of the magazine.”

Lauren and Jenna burst out laughing, and even Victoria cracked a smile.

“I might let you order my dessert,” Jenna said, “but I’m an equal partner of FTW, and you can’t send me off to—” she flipped back to Mark Bishop’s bio to see where he lived “—to Orlando just because you don’t want to do it.”

“You don’t have to go to Orlando,” Victoria said.

“Good.”

“He and Shelby will be in New York.”

“What?”

“They’ve agreed to squeeze in a joint interview while they’re in New York this week. He’s there on business, and she’s picking out her trousseau. It’ll be easy. They’ll be in a lovey-dovey mood. Flush with the glamour and glitz of New York, the city of love…”

“I thought Paris was the city of love,” Lauren cut in.

Victoria shot her a sour look. “Thanks for your support.”

Jenna crossed her arms, annoyance tinged with the tiniest bit of fear beginning to take hold of her. Searching for the right argument, she looked down, straight into the steely, hooded eyes of Mark Bishop. The guy was in the newspaper business, for heaven’s sake. He’d certainly recognize that she was completely out of her element. He’d chew her up and spit out the pieces.

She cleared her throat. Loudly. “I can’t just drop everything and go to New York. I have two children who—”

“Don’t play the little-homemaker card with me,” Victoria said in exasperation. “You have a father and two older brothers who dote on those boys, and they’d be quite willing to baby-sit if you asked them. God knows, you do everything for them.”

“Send Lauren.”

Lauren gave her a small smile of commiseration. “I’m already going. To take the pictures.”

“She can’t do the article,” Victoria said. “She might be a genius with her camera, but you know her thought processes can be hopelessly disorganized. Doesn’t allow for good writing.”

Making a face at Victoria, Lauren replied, “Keep it up, and you’ll be looking for a photographer, as well as a journalist.”

Vic reached across the table and squeezed Lauren’s arm. “You know I love you, darling. Desperation always makes me cruel.”

“What about one of the freelancers?” Jenna suggested.

“Aren’t you always telling me we need to watch costs where we can? Why should we pay a freelancer when there’s a perfectly good writer in-house?” Victoria developed an interest in scraping crumbs from her plate. “Besides, there’s no time. You and Lauren have to show up at his penthouse suite tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow!”

Seeing Jenna’s consternation, Lauren decided to speak up. “Come on, Jen. We can do it. Then we can go shopping. Or take in a show. We can have a ‘wild woman weekend’ just like in the old days.”

“The last time I acted like a wild woman, I ended up married to the most inappropriate man in the world.”

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that this time,” Victoria said. “Shelby Elaine isn’t going to turn number six loose without a fight.”

Jenna tried again. “I can’t go anywhere tomorrow. I have an appointment.”

“With whom?” Vic asked suspiciously.

“With a real-estate agent. I wasn’t kidding before. I’ve got to find a place of my own. The boys need it. I need it. Independence Day is long past due.”

How irksome it was to see the open skepticism on both her friends’ faces! Vic, of course, was the first to weigh in with her opinion. “I don’t know why you think you can fool us with all this nonsense about buying a house. You’re not going to move out of your father’s place—at least not until you get married again. You claim to be eager to get back out on your own, but there’s still a part of you that wants to stay there.”

“Why would I want to stay there? It’s too small for all of us. Dad can drive a person nuts. It’s too far from—”

“Because it’s safe.” Vic cut across the conversation.

Jenna stared down at her abandoned dessert. She wanted to refute Vic’s words, but she had no grounds.

She longed for independence, longed to make a home for herself and the boys, but at the same time she was scared to death. Afraid to fail. Afraid to find out she couldn’t manage on her own. It was horrible to be this age, have come this far, and still suspect that deep within, the same old insecure Jenna was sabotaging every move.

She could feel Vic and Lauren’s eyes on her and felt a surge of rebellion. “Why can’t you go, Vic?” she asked, determined to keep the conversation on the problem at hand. “And I want the truth.”

Victoria looked down for a moment, running her fingers through her blond hair in a familiar gesture that told her friends the teasing time was over. When she lifted her eyes, Jenna saw the uneasiness there, tinged with an un-characteristic fear.

“I’m flying out to California tomorrow morning,” Victoria said, the lightness gone from her voice. “I’m not going to let Cara flit off to Europe to ride around on the back of a motorcycle without trying to make her see reason. That guy is no good for her, and maybe face-to-face I can convince her of that.”

During Victoria’s last year in college, her parents had been killed in a car accident. Cara, six years her junior, had been seriously injured. Vic had dropped out of school and come home to take care of her sister. She’d nursed her back to health, settled their parents’ estate and over-seen the sale of the family business. The sisters loved each other dearly. But that didn’t mean Cara would let Vic tell her how to run her love life.

Jenna knew firsthand how such interference could sometimes produce a result just the opposite of the one desired. She leaned closer to her friend. “Vic…are you sure this is the best way to handle the problem? Don’t you remember when everyone in my family tried to persuade me not to marry Jack? We couldn’t get to the justice of the peace fast enough.”

“It won’t be like that,” Victoria replied. She pressed her lips together tightly, as though her anxiety had leaked out before she could catch it. “My mind’s made up, the tickets are bought, so don’t try to talk me out of it.”

They all subsided into thoughtful silence. The rest of their desserts remained uneaten. Jenna stared down at the picture of Mark Bishop, seeing nothing but the potential for disaster. She would do anything to help the magazine and her friend. But this? How could she hope to succeed?

Eventually the silence became charged and uncomfortable. Jenna picked up the picture again, releasing a huge sigh. “Lord, he looks so intimidating.”

“Debra Lee says he’s a prince to work for. And he’s fallen in love since that picture was taken,” Victoria said. “He’ll be a pussycat.”

Jenna opened her mouth to refute that, but Lauren touched Victoria’s sleeve and said, “Give her some time to think about it, Vic. You know Jenna. She likes to weigh everything very carefully. I’m not surprised she’s hesitant, the way you’ve sprung this on her.”

Victoria looked back at Jenna. “All right. I’ll give you until tonight to make up your mind.”

“And then what happens?” Jenna asked.

“And then I start begging.”

Lauren laughed, but Jenna frowned. She wouldn’t go. She just couldn’t. No more thought on the matter would make a difference.

And she wasn’t going to let this foolishness keep her from enjoying a dessert the company was paying good money for. She picked up her fork again and deliberately placed a sizable bite of Chocolate Sin into her mouth.

The icing was thick, cloying. She tried to savor its richness, but all she could see were Mark Bishop’s dark eyes staring up at her from his picture beside her plate.

“Don’t look like that,” Vic commanded. “You’re not being sent to the executioner’s block.”

Maybe not, Jenna thought. But the cake sure tasted like part of a condemned man’s last meal.

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE TIME Jenna got home that afternoon, her mind was more made up than ever. There was no way she could face a powerful, sophisticated businessman like Mark Bishop and ask him a bunch of silly questions about love and romance and how he’d found the girl of his dreams.

But at the same time she couldn’t help sympathizing with Vic and her dilemma with her sister. The easiest solution, Jenna decided, was to farm out the article to one of FTW’s many freelancers. Even on such short notice, one of them would be glad to take the job. She could start calling them right after she got the boys settled down for the night. If she had to, she’d pay for the piece out of her own pocket. End of problem.

That decision made, Jenna turned her attention to dinner. She would have preferred to take a warm bath and put her feet up with a good book, but no such luck.

Her older brothers were coming over. Christopher had been in a major funk this week because his girlfriend, Amanda, was out of town visiting her family. Trent, now a full partner in the family construction business, wanted to celebrate the completion of their most recent job, a large office complex on Magnolia Street. Jenna’s sons, Petey and J.D., always enjoyed having their uncles in the house, and her father was eager to try out his new grill. The evening promised to be noisy, lively and exhausting.

She fixed a salad and baked potatoes to go with the steaks her father grilled. While Christopher and Trent roughhoused with her sons in the living room, Jenna slipped peach cobbler into the oven and swallowed two aspirins to quell the headache building behind her eyes.

The meal was a success. The fellows were always appreciative of her cooking and had the good sense to remark on it. Afterward, as Jenna placed the cobbler and ice cream on the table, there were groans that they were too full, but she noticed that this didn’t stop them.

Her father launched into a speech about barbecuing techniques. Christopher said that Amanda had called him and missed him already. Trent was helping the boys scoop ice cream while they playfully fought over who got the biggest helping. The closeness, the good-natured ribbing, the relaxed laughter—it was into this familiar family patter that Jenna brought her own contribution to the conversation: Vic’s attempt to coerce her to go to New York.

Talk at the table ceased as if someone had just discovered a bomb planted in the centerpiece. Five pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

After a lengthy silence, Trent was the first to speak. “Wow,” he said as he returned to scooping ice cream. “Victoria must be really desperate.”

Jenna was momentarily speechless. Maybe it was her headache. Maybe it was the heat from the kitchen that had caused an unpleasant line of perspiration to form along the small of her back. Or maybe it was just the offhand, incredulous way Trent had said it, as though Vic’s suggestion was unthinkable. Whatever it was, her brother’s comment rankled. Why was it so impossible to believe his kid sister might be able to handle the interview?

Jenna decided she had to know.

“Why wouldn’t she ask me?” she said. “I’m an equal partner at the magazine. We share a variety of jobs. I can still carry on an adult conversation. Unless, of course, I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Yeah, but…” If he’d missed the sting in her words, Trent certainly couldn’t have misinterpreted her frown of displeasure. He subsided with a grumpy scowl of his own and focused on his bowl of ice cream.

Her father made the situation worse. “New York?” he exclaimed, as though he found the words offensive. “You can’t go there.”

Jenna turned her frown on her father. “Why not?”

“We need you here at home.”

“That’s a lousy reason and you know it. It’s two days. I’ll be back before you and the boys finish the leftover cobbler.”

Her father’s chin set in the same stubborn lines that used to irritate her mother so much. “I don’t like it. It’s much too dangerous. You’re a small-town girl, and the big city’s not the place for you, Jenny-girl.”

Jenna could feel the spoon in her hand cutting into her palm she gripped it so tightly. “For heaven’s sake, it’s New York, not Bangkok. I commute into Atlanta five days a week. I think I can handle it.”

William McNab apparently failed to notice the irritation in his daughter’s voice. “Big-city Atlanta is not the same as big-city New York. Things are different here in the South.”

She batted her eyelashes dramatically. In a heavy Southern accent, she said, “Land-sakes, Papa. I think I can handle being among those darned Yankee carpetbaggers. But if I can’t, why, I’ll just skedaddle back here to the plantation.”

Trent chuckled around a mouthful of cobbler. “Make up your mind, Jen. Are you Lois Lane or Scarlett O’Hara?”

“Knock it off, Trent,” Christopher warned softly, obviously sensing trouble ahead.

Trent looked momentarily confused. Her father sighed, then tossed his oldest son a humor-her look. “Explain the difference to her, Chris.”

Christopher was an Atlanta police detective and could probably regale them with a dozen grim tales from the mean streets of New York. But Jenna, feeling more annoyed by the minute, wasn’t willing to listen. She raised a hand to stop him, then addressed her father.

“You know, Dad, I’m a grown woman now. I’ve been married and divorced, and I’m the mother of two children. What I am not anymore is Jenny-girl. I am not a child, and I am perfectly capable of conducting this interview and hailing cabs and riding the subway and— J.D., stop that!”

Six-year-old J.D. had been trying to start a duel with his brother using a spoon that still dripped ice cream. He jerked his head up guiltily. Jenna gave him “the look,” then went around to his side of the table to wipe at the spot he’d made on the tablecloth. She kept her head down, focused on the task at hand because her throat was suddenly clogged with frustrated, angry words unfit for the boys’ young ears.

Used to defusing potentially dangerous situations, Christopher spoke up. “Take it easy, sis. Dad didn’t mean anything by it. He just worries about you. We all do.”

She glanced up, looking at her brothers and her father in turn. They didn’t appear a bit apologetic, only surprised by her attitude. She was a little surprised by it herself. Just how long had this resentment about the way they saw her been boiling up inside?

Next to her, seven-year-old Petey finished scraping out his bowl. He smiled at her. “I think you’ll be great, Mom. You can do anything.”

Probably just a ploy to get a second helping of dessert, Jenna thought. But she couldn’t help feeling a swell of ridiculous pleasure. At least someone at the table thought she was an adult capable of more than baking a passable peach cobbler.

She leaned over, captured her son’s tousled blond head with one arm and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said as he reddened and squirmed out of her grasp. “You believe in your mom, don’t you, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” Petey replied. “You can tell him all about us. How you ran the pumpkin patch for school last year and how you got Randy’s dad to pay for Little League uniforms and the special Easter baskets you made for Gramma Resnick’s nursing-home people…”

“And how you’re a good cook,” J.D. offered.

The smile froze on Jenna’s face. Neither one of the boys had a clue what conducting an interview was all about. It was also horribly clear just where they thought her talents lay.

In being a mom. Not a real person at all. Just the family facilitator who made sure they got to school every morning with full stomachs and clean clothes. The one who carted them to soccer practice. The one who read them stories at night and cried silly tears over the pictures they drew. Just being a mom.

At the other end of the table, her father and Christopher remained judiciously silent, but Trent, never one to catch subtle changes in the air around him, couldn’t help grinning at her. “There you go, Jen,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Offer the guy some peach cobbler. He’ll spill his guts about romance faster than one of Christopher’s collars trying to beat a rap.”

This time all three men laughed. Even the boys joined in, not fully understanding the conversation, but tickled by the goofy face their uncle made.

Jenna ignored the laughter, refusing to make the discussion any more unpleasant with the boys present. She retreated to the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes while Trent helped Petey with his homework and her father flipped on his favorite television program. Perhaps sensing her irritation, Christopher made a half-hearted attempt to clear the table and help with the dishes, but she shooed him into the living room to join the others.

She usually ran the dishwasher, but tonight she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and slowly lowered the dishes into it. She wasn’t that eager to join the rest of the family. Maybe tonight she’d distance herself entirely from them. Even the boys.

It didn’t matter that some of the things they’d said were the same arguments she’d used at lunch with Vic. They should have been supportive. They shouldn’t have made fun of the idea. At the very least, they should have pretended to think she could do it. For heaven’s sake, she was a college graduate. A working mother. She wasn’t stupid.

She supposed it was her own fault if her family discounted her, tried to run her life. Growing up, she’d allowed her brothers to do most of her thinking for her. It was habit with them now. And since her mother’s death a few years ago, her father had become more protective of her, as well.

The circumstances of her failed marriage hadn’t helped. Jack Rawlins had been the sweetest-talking, handsomest man she’d ever met. He had dreams of running away from the ho-hum world of corporate accounting, living in wild, indolent grace on some tropical island. The unreliable heat of physical desire had sparked and flared between them, and over the objections of her entire family, they had eloped.

For a while, even after the boys came, they’d both worked toward that fairy-tale goal. Jack had bought a boat to fix up. He wanted to sail around the world, and Jenna could see herself on the deck, warmed by the sun, her hair tangled with salt spray as she kept a journal detailing their escapades. They would share a life bigger and grander than anything hot, humid Atlanta had to offer.

But by the fifth year of their marriage, Jenna had begun to modify that dream a little. The boys needed roots. They would be in school soon. The house they’d bought required repairs that were more crucial than the rotting, rusting boat sitting in drydock in the backyard. Could you really support yourself on a small island in the Pacific? Live on coconuts and fish? Maybe it was time to consider occasional vacations, instead of a permanent relocation.

Foolishly, she’d thought Jack had come to that conclusion, too. Passion became a missing ingredient in their comfortable, suburban lifestyle, but Jenna was certain that Jack still loved her. That whatever hopes they’d had to compromise, it would be all right. Sooner or later, didn’t everyone have to accept reality?

And then she woke up one day to discover that Jack hadn’t settled at all. That he’d emptied their bank account, run up their credit cards and booked a flight to Tahiti.

For two.

Evidently his secretary had similar dreams of an adventurous life.

The divorce had been painful, but mercifully quick. The boys had been spared the details of their father’s desertion. Jenna had sold the house, moved back in with her father and begun to rebuild her credit. Her family had closed ranks around her, and she’d been so devastated she’d gone right back to letting them take care of her.

Her one moment of spiteful retaliation? Jack’s boat, left behind because it simply wasn’t grand enough, had mysteriously burned to a crisp. She wasn’t a saint, after all.

Yet she couldn’t honestly say she missed Jack all that much. He’d been so emotionally distant for so long. The boys were finally getting used to the fact that he never called or wrote. Not even a card to them on their birthdays or at Christmas. Those were the only times Jenna thought she could really hate the man.

Perspiration beaded her forehead from the dishwasher’s steamy heat. She swiped it away with one arm. The moonless night had turned the window over the sink into a mirror. She caught her reflection in it, and her submerged hands stilled.

Who is that woman?

It had been years since she’d really evaluated her looks. Now she gave herself the most thorough once-over she could remember. And what she saw made her throat go dry with panic.

Because her mousy-brown hair lacked body, she’d always worn it short, a perky style she’d considered becoming to her long neck. But when had carefree become careless? And her eyes. It wasn’t just the unflattering overhead lighting in the kitchen. There were shadows under them that made her look downright unhealthy. In their dark depths there was no gleam, no energy. Only an unnervingly bleak, fenced-in look.

It was the sight of her mouth that troubled her the most. It had always been her best feature, and truthfully, she was a little vain about it. A lovely bow shape, it curved upward at the corners, the lower lip lush and mobile. In their romantic early days, Jack had told her that it just begged for a man’s kiss.

Of course, he’d probably told his secretary that, too.

But it didn’t matter. What she saw now was nothing she wanted to lay claim to. Her lips seemed thin and down-curving, as though she were the type who constantly manufactured grievances. And tight, as though her teeth were clenched on despair. When had that happened? And how could she have missed it?

She hardly noticed when the dishwater turned too cool to do much good. She kept looking at that stranger in the glass. She knew the divorce had left her pride in tatters, had left her feeling rudderless and finished, but she thought she’d finally come through all that. She was picking up the pieces, moving on with life, moving into life again.

You sure about that, Jen? If that was so, then who was this stranger who stared back at her? And how long before the years took an even greater toll? Once the boys no longer needed her… Once life was filled with more disappointment than fulfillment…

I’m not going to let that happen, she swore to the woman in the glass. I refuse. It’s not too late to change things.

She set the rest of the pots to soak and dried her hands. The family was engrossed in some sitcom blaring on the television and hardly noticed as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

She dialed Vic’s number before she could change her mind and was relieved when her friend picked up on the second ring.

“What are you doing?” Jenna asked.

“Packing, of course.” There were muffled sounds from the other end of the phone as Vic readjusted the receiver. “What will take hollandaise sauce out of a white cotton blouse?”

“Try some club soda mixed with baking powder.”

“I knew you’d know. So what’s the answer?”

Jenna didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.”

Vic whooped with delight. “Terrific! I told Lauren that once you got home and really thought about it, you’d come up with a dozen reasons why you should go.”

Jenna couldn’t resist smiling. “Actually I couldn’t come up with a dozen. Only six.”

“And they are?”

“Dad, Christopher, Trent, Petey and J.D.”

“That’s only five reasons. What’s number six?”

Jenna drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Me.”

CHAPTER THREE

“STOP LOOKING at me like that,” Jenna told Lauren for the third time.

“I can’t help it,” her friend replied with a silly grin. “I’m still in shock.”

They were alone in the small elevator of New York’s Belasco Hotel, headed up to the penthouse suite. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Jenna had expected someone of Mark Bishop’s wealth and position to be drawn to a place more pretentious, more dazzling. Instead, the Belasco boasted Old World charm and discreet elegance—no doubt at horribly expensive rates—but enchanting nonetheless.

Lauren, whose exposure to these kinds of places was much broader than Jenna’s, didn’t seem a bit impressed by their surroundings. Instead, her appreciative gaze roamed over Jenna again. “When did you find the time to do all this?”

This was the transformation Jenna had attempted to make in her appearance before their plane had taken off that day at noon. She’d decided that if she couldn’t actually lay claim to being a serious journalist, she ought to at least look like one. Confident. Sophisticated. Savvy. Judging from Lauren’s reaction, her efforts had been worthwhile.

“It’s amazing what you can accomplish once you decide to eliminate sleep from your life,” Jenna told her friend. “I raided the cosmetic counter at my all-night drugstore. I did my nails and gave myself a facial. Then I called Max early this morning and promised him a month’s salary as a tip if he’d do something with my hair.”

“The change is incredible,” Lauren said.

Self-consciously, Jenna touched the wispy ends of her new haircut. “You don’t think the blond highlights are too radical?”

Lauren shook her head as though she still couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I think they look fantastic.”

“It’s not helping that you’re this shocked. How bad did I look before?”

“Sorry. You just look so…”

“Professional?”

“I was going to say sexy.”

Jenna frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not the image I was going for.”

“Maybe not. But it can’t hurt.” She gave Jenna another long, sweeping glance. “And red is really your color.”

Jenna looked down at the suit she wore with its short jacket and stand-up collar. She hadn’t had time to shop for clothes, and this had been the closest thing in her wardrobe to a “power suit.” She’d faced down an IRS auditor in this suit during her brother Trent’s tax investigation the year before.

She noted that Lauren, on the other hand, looked casual and breezy in a khaki shirt and pants with about a dozen deep pockets. Her hair was swinging freely in a ponytail, and the camera bag that went with her everywhere was slung over one shoulder.

“I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” Jenna muttered.

The elevator doors opened, and they started down a short hallway where the carpet underfoot was as thick as a blanket of snow. They stopped in front of the penthouse door. As Lauren rapped on it, Jenna said softly, “Just promise me one thing. If you hear my knees knocking, you’ll start talking to cover the noise.”

Vic had provided her with a list of questions, along with a copy of Mark Bishop’s original interview. Jenna hugged it close to her chest. Some of the questions were harmless, just for fun. Some informational. Others, maybe half a dozen, made Jenna blush just to read them. She couldn’t imagine asking them. Or Mark Bishop being willing to respond.

What would Vic do if she came back without a single sizzling nugget about the man? Probably pronounce her a complete failure and never send her on this kind of assignment again. Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

For the hundredth time she ran through the interviewing tips her friend had coached her with over the phone. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t interrupt him in the middle of an answer. Look interested in what he says, never as if you disapprove. Make eye contact, lots of it. Don’t let him see that you’re nervous….

Oh, Lord, what had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this! Why did she think this suit would help? She wasn’t a journalist. She was an accountant, and power red or not, he was going to see through her in two seconds flat. She should bow out now, while she still had the chance. She should—

And then suddenly the door to the suite opened, and there was their old friend Debra Lee. She looked a little older, much more sophisticated than Jenna remembered, but her smile was the same. Warm and welcoming. She greeted them with hugs and ushered them inside.

Jenna barely had time to register that the suite was probably big enough to hold most of her father’s house before Debra Lee led them through sliding glass doors and onto a wide terrace that ran the length of the suite.

The summer air was surprisingly cool and refreshing. From the balcony, the tops of the tallest trees from the nearest park were barely visible, waving like ruffled fans in the slight breeze. Beyond them lay Manhattan, its impressive skyline caught in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Lauren, always looking for that next wonderful shot, immediately crossed to the railing. She pulled her camera up, made a few adjustments and began clicking away happily. Never fond of heights, Jenna was content to hang back closer to the sliding glass doors.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Debra Lee said, indicating a pitcher of iced tea and glasses on a patio table. “Mark and Miss Winston had an appointment this afternoon, and I’m afraid they’re not back yet.”

One of Jenna’s pet peeves was being kept waiting, especially since she knew FTW’s office had reconfirmed their appointment just this morning. She’d read once that people who were chronically late were subconsciously flexing their muscles, trying to show who had the upper hand in the meeting. She could just imagine someone like Mark Bishop wanting to send that kind of message. You’re not important enough for me to care about being on time.

But on the plus side, a delayed interview would certainly allow her an easy out. “We can reschedule if necessary,” Jenna said, knowing Vic would be the one to show up next time.

Lauren stopped taking pictures and turned toward them. “No, we can’t,” she said to Debra Lee with a pointed look in Jenna’s direction. “We’ll wait.”

“Good,” Debra Lee replied. Then she suddenly looked sheepish. “I suppose I should have told Vic, but Mark never actually agreed—”

There was a sound behind them, the door to the suite opening and closing with a bang, then a strong male voice calling out, “Deb! Where are you? Get in here!”

Debra Lee gave them a quick smile. “Wait here, please,” she said, then spun around and stepped back into the living room.

Still absorbed in taking pictures, Lauren had wandered farther along the terrace. She was almost completely hidden now by an enormous ficus in an oriental tub. Jenna was standing so close to the exterior wall beside the sliding glass doors that she couldn’t be easily seen, either.

It occurred to her that she should probably move out into the center of the terrace, make sure her presence was noted by whomever had just entered the suite. Instead, she instinctively moved closer to the wall.

The man spoke again, harshly, and though she couldn’t see him any better than he could see her, Jenna felt sure it must be Mark Bishop. “I just spent two excruciating hours listening to that idiot Benchley. He claims there was a major change in top management at Castleman Press last week. Find Scott. Tell him I want to know why it wasn’t in his report. A shakeup like that should have been a red flag that a blind man couldn’t have missed.”

His voice was exactly what Jenna expected—deep, commanding and leaving little room for argument. Nervous tension danced up her spine.

“Right away,” she heard Debra Lee say. And then, “Miss Winston isn’t with you?”

“I didn’t have the heart to make her stay and listen to Benchley, so she went on to Ken’s office to sign some papers. She’ll be here soon. God, I’m whipped. And I need a drink. Benchley’s voice is still making my ears vibrate.”

There was silence for a long minute amid a few small sounds of settling. The rustle of cloth against cloth. The clink of ice being dropped into a glass.

“Your five-o’clock appointment is here,” Debra Lee said at last.

“I don’t have a five-o’clock.”

“My friends from the magazine. You remember, we discussed this yesterday.”

“I remember I told you to cancel it.” There was a quizzical note in Bishop’s voice now. Jenna was sure he must be frowning at his secretary.

“That was before you kept me working on the Brazleton deal all night. I believe you owe me a favor, Mark.”

“Deb, come on. I did this once. How many times do I have to be tortured by these people?”

The remark put Jenna immediately on the defensive.

“I suppose that depends on how many times you expect me to leave my husband and family at a moment’s notice just so you’ll have someone at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day.” Debra Lee didn’t sound a bit intimidated. She’d worked for Mark Bishop a long time, and maybe their relationship had developed beyond the usual employer/employee dynamic.

“You know, there are women at the paper who would kill to work shoulder to shoulder with me. I could have you working in classifieds by tomorrow morning.”

Jenna could hear fondness in his voice and knew he was joking. Debra Lee laughed lightly. “I’ll get the transfer forms. Simple work. Normal hours. No having to second-guess or cater to unreasonable whims. Sounds like heaven to me.”

“Why don’t you do the interview?” Mark Bishop suggested. “You know me well enough to answer any asinine question they might have. Tell them all my secrets. Tell them anything you want. I don’t care. I haven’t slept in…God, I can’t remember how long.”

“Then let’s get started now, and when Miss Winston gets here, most of it will be done. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“That’s what my mother used to say when she took me to the dentist. I didn’t believe her, either.”

“Come on, Mark. These are my friends. I—”

“Owe them,” the man finished her sentence impatiently, and Jenna could imagine him lifting his hand to halt her continued efforts to sway him. “I got it, I got it.”

“It’s true. I could never have gotten through high school without their friendship. Besides, you need to be more visible, more approachable.”

“I don’t want to be more approachable.”

“Then think of it as good PR for the company.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Again there was a rustle of movement from inside the suite. Jenna froze. She was about to come face-to-face with Mark Bishop, and when she did, it would become abundantly clear she’d been standing close enough to the doorway to hear every nasty word. But it was too late now. She remained where she was, feeling resentful and embarrassed and pinned to the spot.

Mark Bishop walked out onto the terrace, Debra Lee only a couple of steps behind him. Because Jenna was so close to the wall, he didn’t see her, and Debra Lee obstructed her view of him. All she got was the impression of broad shoulders and dark hair.

From the far end of the balcony, Lauren turned and approached quickly, hand held out, a smile on her face. “Hello,” she said as they shook hands. “Nice to see you again.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” the man said mildly, and if Jenna hadn’t heard his complaints with her own ears, she’d never have guessed this was the same man.

“Lauren Hoffman.” She tilted her head past him to catch Jenna’s eye. “And this is Jenna Rawlins, one of the partners of Fairy Tale Weddings. She’s taking Victoria’s place for the interview.”

Bishop pivoted immediately. He was frowning; he clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone behind him. Blood surged giddily through Jenna’s veins and she could imagine color rushing to her cheeks. She stepped forward swiftly, her hand held out in greeting.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bishop,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. It’s very kind of you to agree to be…tortured once again.”

He blinked quickly—just once—but it was enough to give her a moment of confidence. If there was no way to gracefully admit she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation with Debra Lee, she might as well let him know she hadn’t misunderstood a single, unkind word.

Her poise, however, didn’t last. Mark Bishop took her hand in his, holding it a shade longer than necessary. An awkward silence stretched between them like a thin, tight wire.

His head had tilted slightly, as though she was something he’d never seen before, and his mouth, so serious only seconds before, curled up slowly in one corner. It was his eyes that fascinated her, though. They were a dark gray-blue, the color of a stormy sea, yet flecked with light.

“Deb’s told me all about you,” he said pleasantly.

She couldn’t tell what he meant by that, whether he was making fun of her or just making small talk. Either way, she wasn’t going to let him see how much he unnerved her. “And Deb has told us all about you, too.”

He looked as if he might address that, but Debra Lee interrupted smoothly with “Shelby should be here any minute. Shall we get started without her?”

Without waiting for them to answer, he nodded and turned, stepping back into the suite’s living area. She and Lauren followed in his wake, and Jenna couldn’t help noticing how tall he was and the easy, confident way he moved. From shopping with her father and brothers, Jenna knew men’s clothing, but nothing they had ever chosen off the rack could match the fine-tailoring of Bishop’s charcoal double-breasted suit.

He offered them the couch, while he took the easy chair across from them and Debra Lee disappeared into another room. Jenna assumed it was to locate Scott, the poor guy who’d missed the management changes at Castleman Press. She wondered if he would lose his job over it.

Unbuttoning his jacket, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, Mark Bishop spent a few minutes listening to Lauren as she discussed the pictures she intended to take. He didn’t seem to mind the idea that she wanted mostly candid shots. In fact, Jenna was left with the impression that he didn’t care one way or the other.

Jenna continued to stare down at his file in her lap. The questions in front of her were only a black-and-white blur. She could feel her heart racing. Random questions popped out at her as she tried to settle on which one to ask first. Should she start slowly and build to the more intimate ones? Or jump in with something daring, as Vic was likely to do?

Oh, hell, Jenna thought, what does it matter? You’re not on 60 Minutes, trying to unravel a political scandal. Just pick something.

But when her eyes finally focused and she did, she saw that the question dealt with positions in bed, one of Vic’s naughty inquiries, and Jenna knew it would take more than a red power suit to prepare her for that one. She swore she could feel the tips of her ears turning pink and wished she’d told Max to give her a haircut that covered them.

“Any time now, Miss Rawlins,” Mark Bishop said into a silence that had become foolishly long.

She jerked her head up to discover that he was staring at her. Dark, curious and assessing, it was the sort of look that could make you forget about breathing for a heartbeat or two. There, Jenna thought. Those eyes are what made Shelby Elaine Winston fall in love.

Her heart began to beat faster; she could feel it in her temples. She blurted out, “Do you wear boxers or briefs, Mr. Bishop?”

He let out a little huff of surprised laughter, and Jenna was aware that even Lauren had turned her head to stare at her.

Somehow she kept from lowering her glance in mortification.

His lips had curved into a smile. “I must say, you get right to the point.”

How had the situation gone so wrong, so fast? The part of her brain still capable of rational thought took over again, thank goodness. She cleared her throat and offered him a smile full of regret. “I apologize for being so personal,” she said. “Let’s start with something less…intimate, shall we?” A quick look down at her notes. “How did you and Miss Winston meet?”

He nodded, obviously willing to forget that first question. “We met a couple of years ago at a charity auction. We spent a very pleasant evening together trying to outbid one another.”

“And you’ve been dating ever since?”

“No. I didn’t see Shelby again until three months ago when one of my newspapers was doing an investigative piece on Senator Winston’s involvement with the Texanol scandal. She stormed into my office and accused me of trying to start a smear campaign against her father.”

It was Jenna’s turn to frown, though she hid it by pretending to flip through her list of questions. It seemed odd to her that Mark Bishop could have met the woman of his dreams two years ago and then been perfectly happy not to see her again until just recently. Evidently it hadn’t been love at first sight.

She looked up when Bishop spoke again. “Senator Winston is the senior senator from Texas.” He paused, as though she needed time for that to sink in. “And by the way, he was found to be completely uninvolved in that debacle at Texanol.”

She knew that, and it irritated her that he would think she didn’t. Did he imagine they were idiots? That they never read the paper? There he sat, cool and elegant in his expensive suit, in his expensive hotel penthouse, like a king greeting his subjects. Was she supposed to find his insults acceptable because they’d been presented with subtlety and finesse? He’d been friendly and charming so far, but what did she really know about the man? He certainly hadn’t wanted to do this interview, she remembered.

Annoyed, she gave him a bright, completely false smile. “Actually, Mr. Bishop, we do stay abreast of current events at Fairy Tale Weddings. In fact, I’m almost sure I read a story about Senator Winston one day in the grocery store checkout line. It was right next to a story about a two-headed baby born in Nebraska.”

Nothing in his posture or features indicated he found her sarcasm offensive. He just continued to stare at her, waiting. Lauren got up suddenly, lifted her camera and began taking another round of pictures.

Debra Lee appeared in the living room at that moment, cell phone in hand. “I’ve got Scott on the line,” she told her boss. “Do you want to take it?”

“Yes,” Mark Bishop replied. He gave both Jenna and Lauren apologetic smiles. “Will you excuse me for one moment, ladies?”

He stood and wandered back out to the terrace for privacy. Debra Lee scooped up their empty iced-tea glasses and retreated to the kitchen.

Lauren was digging in her camera case for more film. She said under her breath, “What are you doing? Don’t piss him off, Jen.”

“He thinks we’re idiots!” Jenna hissed.

“Who cares?”

“I do.”

Before they could say any more, Bishop was back. The breeze on the terrace had fingered his dark hair into soft, imperfect waves. Jenna liked the look better on him and was sorry when he pushed back a lock from his forehead with an impatient hand.

He didn’t sit down again. A beautiful mahogany desk took up the entire corner of the room, and he perched on it, one leg cocked over the edge. The refined, athletic grace of that movement sent an unexpected dart of sexual heat to Jenna’s stomach.

“Now, where were we?” he asked. “Oh, yes. I believe you were taking exception to something I said?”

The question was mild, nonthreatening, but Jenna couldn’t help feeling as though he was watching her a little more closely now. She could feel a blush creeping higher and higher up her neck.

Suddenly she didn’t want to ask any of Vic’s silly romantic questions. She wanted to see Mark Bishop as a real person. Wanted him to see her as a real person. Someone to be reckoned with and taken seriously. He’d piqued her interest with his earlier mention of a buyout of Castleman Press. Curiosity overcame her. “Are you going to buy Castleman Press?” she asked.

He seemed unperturbed by such a bald question. “That depends on the financial climate next quarter.”

As the investment counselor for the magazine, Jenna knew a little bit about Castleman. She read the Wall Street Journal religiously, followed every trend in the stock-market and was always looking for companies FTW could add to their tiny investment portfolio. “Castleman’s stock plummeted sixteen points last week. It’s ripe for a take-over.”

She sensed a restless movement from Lauren’s side of the couch, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Mark Bishop. He was watching her in that silent, assessing way again. Only this time Jenna was also aware of a pull between them, something electric and subtle, something unmistakably sexual. It didn’t seem possible, yet Jenna was sure she wasn’t imagining it; it hadn’t been that long since a man had looked at her this way. Too bad it was coming from someone who was already engaged to be married.

The corners of his mouth lifted into another smile. “Is that opinion coming from your supermarket tabloid?”

She started to smile back, then sobered when Debra Lee leaned close to him. Mark Bishop turned away to speak to her. His comments were brief and businesslike. Jenna felt a stab of pain on her thigh and swung her head around to find that Lauren had pinched her.

“Forget about Castleman,” Lauren whispered tightly. “You’re the only one who cares about that. Find out whether it’s boxers or briefs.”

“But…” Jenna began, then closed her mouth because Mark Bishop had finished his business with Debra Lee and turned his attention back to Jenna.

“My apologies. You were saying?”

Jenna consulted her list and moved on to the next question on it. “So you and Shelby were at odds at first. What, eventually, attracted you to Miss Winston?”

“She’s quite beautiful, of course. She has a good head on her shoulders and comes from an excellent family. Honest, socially conscious. I found her loyalty to her father very admirable.” He stopped, tilting his head inquiringly at her. “Something amuses you, Miss Rawlins?”

How much could she safely say? And how could she put it? Wow, Bishop. Are you sure we’re talking about your fiancée here and not Lassie? No, he’d definitely take offense at that. Jenna’s tongue slid out to wet her lips. “Pardon me, Mr. Bishop, but the readers of FTW would find your answers rather…” She hesitated.

“Unromantic?” he finished for her. “Yes, I expect they would be disappointed. But I’m not eighteen anymore. For me, marriage isn’t about poetry and flowers and silly love songs. It’s a partnership, and I see nothing wrong with two people wanting to make the best arrangement they can.”

She could see he was dead serious, and she hardly knew what to say in the face of his calm practicality. His eyes were like polished steel now, untroubled and frank. Maybe she’d imagined that earlier awareness between them, after all. Her overriding thought was that she hoped Shelby Elaine knew just what kind of bargain she’d made.

“So you see your upcoming marriage as a satisfactory business alliance,” Jenna stated. She tried to keep Vic’s advice uppermost in her mind. Never look as if you disapprove.

“I can see I’ve offended you somehow,” Bishop said, killing her hope that she’d managed to keep her thoughts off her features. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve always found the idea of grand passion rather—” he stopped, searched for the right word and evidently found it “—unreliable.”

“No, I understand,” she replied, although she wasn’t sure she did. “Shall we continue?” Beginning to feel a little edgy and out of sorts, she chose the most foolishly inane questions she could find. “What’s your favorite flower?”

“Artificial. Silk, I suppose. It’s more costly, but ultimately lasts longer.”

Sorry, Shelby Elaine. Looks like there will be no roses smelling up the house on your birthday. “Your favorite movie?”

“I rarely have time to go to movies.”

“Favorite color?”

“Gray.”

Should have seen that one coming. “Favorite animal?”

“I’d have to give that some thought. I’m not really an animal person. No pets.”

Probably too messy for his tastes. All that mushy unconditional-love stuff.

“I’m a Leo,” Mark Bishop offered. “But then, I think that was established in the last interview.”

She narrowed her eyes, certain now that he was making fun of her. His expression seemed guileless, and yet she imagined he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Changing tacks, she said, “Have you set a date yet?”

“Shelby would like to get married next spring.”

“Where?”

“On her father’s ranch in Texas.”

“And your honeymoon?”

Bishop shrugged. “That hasn’t been decided yet. I’ve told Shelby to pick out any spot that pleases her.”

Are all the decisions Shelby’s? Except for showing up, are you participating in this wedding at all? She clenched her teeth, trying to keep every bit of skepticism she had about these nuptials way, way down inside her. “Do you plan to have children?”

He took a moment to answer that one. Finally he said, “Shelby and I were both only children. We may want a child eventually, but I don’t think either of us is ready to give up our freedom just yet.”

She asked a dozen more questions. None of them seemed to upset or interest him. He danced around the more personal ones, and by the time the interview wound down, Jenna was pretty certain she’d discover later that she’d bitten her tongue completely in two. She wondered how she was going to make anyone find her article the least bit interesting.

Mark Bishop didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Poor Shelby Elaine was going to find it tough going. Jenna felt sorry for the woman, and oddly dispirited herself, like a child who opens the most promising package under the Christmas tree only to find nothing she wants inside. Even the question of boxers or briefs seemed pointless now. She searched her list of questions, trying to come up with something to take back to Vic.

She settled on, “What advice could you give our readers if they wanted to catch a man like you, Mr. Bishop?” Not that anyone ought to try.

“I’d tell them not to bother.”

Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

His gaze was impersonal now, roaming over her in a way she didn’t like at all. In a bland, dispassionate voice he said, “No man should want any woman who makes it her life’s mission to catch a husband.”

Thrown off stride by that answer, Jenna was momentarily speechless. And then speech wasn’t necessary at all because the door to the penthouse opened and closed—again with a bang—and a gorgeous blonde stalked from the foyer into the living room.

The woman completely ignored Lauren and Jenna, and even Debra Lee, who’d come out of the kitchen area. She had the delicate, sculpted profile of an antique cameo, but there was nothing delicate about the way she approached Mark Bishop. She was breathing heavily, as though she’d just run a marathon.

A frown starting to form in his brow, Bishop straightened. “Shel? What’s the matter?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Shelby Elaine Winston lifted her hand and slapped him hard across the face. He didn’t move or react in any way, but his cheek turned bright red immediately.

“You despicable son of a bitch! Did you really think I would sign this?” Shelby raised her other hand and waved a sheaf of legal-size documents in Mark Bishop’s face.

“Be reasonable,” he said calmly. “A prenup is hardly out of line in a merger like this. Legally, it only makes sense to—”

She threw the documents on the desk beside him, where they scattered wildly. “I was wrong. I thought I could change you, but I should never have doubted my instincts. You really don’t know how to love or trust anyone, do you, Mark? I feel sorry for you, but I’m glad I got the wake-up call before it’s too late.”

“Shelby, if you’ll just think about it rationally—”

“I’ve done nothing but think about it the whole way over here from Ken’s office. Is that how you see our future? Is that what you think marriage between us will come to?”

Mark Bishop never looked in Jenna or Lauren’s direction. He kept his gaze focused on the angry woman in front of him. “I would hope not. But I don’t have a crystal ball. I don’t know what the future holds, and neither do you.”

“Oh, but I do,” Shelby Elaine said in a tight voice. Lifting her hand, she twisted her engagement ring off her finger, then tossed it on the desk to join the papers. It bounced once, then rolled to a stop. “I see my future very clearly, Mark. And you’re not in it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“WELL,” LAUREN SAID as they waited for the elevator to take them back down to the lobby. “That was interesting.”

Jenna was still trying to catch her breath. “Interesting! You mean dreadful.”

After Shelby Winston had stormed out of the penthouse, Mark Bishop had turned to them calmly, apologized and said that the interview appeared to be over. Then he’d left the room. They’d gathered their things so quickly that anyone watching might have found their departure comical. Except that Jenna couldn’t find a single amusing thing about the whole sorry incident.

She stared up at the elevator numbers over the door, wishing it would hurry. She wanted to get back down to the sidewalk outside the hotel, where the last of the summer sun would warm her, make her feel less chilled.

Lauren glanced at her. “Oh, come on, Jen. Didn’t you learn anything from Jack about the rotten things men are capable of? Obviously Mr. Wonderful wanted to make sure Shelby Elaine couldn’t touch a single penny of his hard-earned money. If you ask me, she got out just in time.”

Jenna frowned. Something about that didn’t make sense. The elevator arrived, and all the way down she thought about it. Over the phone last night, Vic had prepped her pretty thoroughly about Mark Bishop, and Jenna, who had a mild interest in politics, had always kept current with what was happening in the wealthy and political Winston family.

Sure, a prenuptial agreement for a rich guy like Bishop might be a given, but he wasn’t exactly marrying Daisy Mae from Dogpatch. Her father was a senior state senator. The family history went back to Texas land grants deeded to her ancestors before the Alamo. Shelby herself was on the fast track as a campaign manager for Senator McDill from Nebraska. Why would money be the deal breaker?

Jenna said as much to Lauren as they strode through the lobby.

Lauren shrugged as she stepped through the revolving front door and didn’t reply until they were both on the sidewalk. “Maybe it was just the principle of the thing. Who cares? Except now we don’t have a story for the next issue.” She craned her neck to see if she could spot a taxi. “Vic’s gonna go ballistic when we come back empty-handed. I wonder if Bishop would be willing to be part of a new list—the South’s Ten Most Unromantic Males.”

Jenna shook her head. “I don’t see how you can be cavalier about what we just witnessed. It was so…unpleasant.”

Lauren stopped watching the traffic and turned to give her friend an incredulous look. “God, Jenna, don’t tell me you think there was any hope for that relationship! I mean, really, he’d buy her silk flowers? And why? Because you get better value. Yep, the blowup had to be a money thing. Men are always so generous before the wedding, aren’t they?” She spotted what appeared to be an available cab and waved her arm, but the driver whizzed right past them.

Jenna blew out a long, frustrated breath. It still didn’t make any sense. Mark Bishop struck her as a lot of things, some of them annoying, some of them downright infuriating, but not stingy. “It sounded as though he was willing to go to any expense for the wedding and honeymoon.”

“Why are you worrying about him? He looks like the kind of guy who knows how to land on his feet. And as good-looking as he is, he won’t have a difficult time finding someone to fill Shelby Winston’s shoes.”

“I just find it puzzling, that’s all.”

A cab squealed up to the curb at last. “Let’s get out of here,” Lauren said, clearly finished with the topic of Mark Bishop and his ex-fiancée. “I want to shop.”

Jenna backed away from the taxi. “I’m really not in the mood. It’s only a couple of blocks to the hotel. I think I’ll walk.”

“Spending money will put us both in a better mood.”

“You go on. It will give me time to think, let my nerves settle.”

“We’re in New York,” Lauren said. “You told me yourself that we blew all the frequent-flyer points the magazine has to come here. You can’t let this opportunity go to waste. Surely there’s something you want to see or do.”

“Maybe this evening.”

“Jen—” Lauren stared at her in complete exasperation now “—do you even remember how to have fun anymore?”

The question stung, but she wasn’t going to get into an argument. “I’ll see you later,” she said with a wave of her hand. Before Lauren could say another word, Jenna slipped into the thick, urgent river of people making their way home.

Back at their hotel, the phone was ringing as she unlocked the door. She kicked off her high heels and snatched up the receiver as she sank onto one of the beds. It was her father, calling from Atlanta.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he reassured her quickly. “I just wanted to see if you made it there safely—since you didn’t call me.”

Jenna stopped rubbing one sore calf muscle and switched to massaging her temple. After a day like today, she wasn’t prepared to handle a guilt trip for not checking in. “Everything went fine, Dad,” she said between gritted teeth. “I didn’t need to have a note pinned to my jacket, after all.”

Her father laughed, unfazed by her sarcasm. “You know I can’t help worrying.”

“I know.” She supposed there were a lot of things William McNab couldn’t help doing out of habit, but that didn’t mean she had to like them. She’d canceled her initial appointment with the real-estate agent, but now she made a mental note to call the woman again once she got back home. Time to start an earnest search for just the right place. “Are the boys there?”

“Chris took them out to the batting cages. He’s going to work on Petey’s swing. Fat lot of good it will do, just between me and you.”

Her oldest son was probably the worst Little League player in the history of the game. Her brothers and father had worked with him quite a bit over the summer, but he still “stunk to high heaven,” as his coach so charmingly put it.

“How did your interview go?” her father asked.

“Fine,” she replied. He didn’t need to know what a bizarre and miserable failure the whole experience had been. “We’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

For some reason not clear to Jenna, her father was a huge fan of the weather channel, and in no time he was lecturing her about a storm watch in effect for the whole eastern seaboard starting around midnight. The flight home was bound to be bumpy. She should remember to take her antinausea medicine. Barely listening, Jenna began paging through the hotel’s guest-information book that sat on the nightstand.

“Are you listening to me, Jen?”

“Every word, Dad,” she said absently. She squinted down at the laminated page in front of her—the list of contents of the room’s honor bar. Good grief, I can see charging a fortune for macadamia nuts, but can two ounces of vodka really be worth twenty-six dollars? She rubbed her temple again as her father warned her about a cold front blowing down from Canada. Maybe twenty-six dollars was a bargain, if you were desperate enough.

“Go to bed early tonight,” her father advised. “You’ll manage better tomorrow if you get a good night’s rest.”

Irritated that even her bedtime didn’t seem to be her call anymore, Jenna took perverse enjoyment in saying, “This is my only night in New York. I was thinking of painting the town red.”

There was a long pause. Then her father said in a low, serious tone, “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Maybe not,” she said. Then, remembering her last conversation with Lauren, she added, “But I’d like to think I haven’t forgotten how to have fun.”

“You haven’t forgotten, honey. You just grew up. You’re a good girl. And whatever else Jack may have been, marriage to him taught you some valuable lessons about responsibility and the dangers of reckless disregard and—”

Advice about the weather and keeping late hours she could tolerate. Discussions about her failed marriage were something else entirely. “I have to go, Dad,” she interrupted him. “Kiss the boys for me. I love you.”

Feeling frustrated and edgy, she crossed to the bar and started to remove every tiny bottle in the fridge. She hadn’t concocted mixed drinks in years, but she was pretty sure she could manage it. But then she put everything back. Not because she’d changed her mind, but because if she really wanted to improve her mood, she stood a much better chance if she was to go out, be around other people. Feel the ambiance of New York City, a little excitement, a touch of the unknown.

Though her feet were killing her—she hardly ever wore heels these days—she slipped her shoes back on, applied fresh lipstick and ran her fingers through her hair to give it a less-structured look. On the walk back to the hotel she’d passed at least a dozen bars and restaurants. One of them was bound to offer what she needed.

She didn’t know when Lauren would be back, but one thing was certain. She wasn’t going to spend the evening checking the weather channel, eating stale nuts and washing them down with thimble-size bottles of liquor. It had been one hell of a day, and she deserved to let her hair down.

After scribbling a short note to Lauren, she dropped the small container of macadamia nuts into her jacket pocket and headed back out the door.

Forty-five minutes later found Jenna sitting at a small table in Willowby’s Tavern. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a great view of the avenue and a golden, fading sunset that had turned the windows of every office building into a pretty caramel color. She was on her third drink, some festive rum mixture that was more appropriate for a tiki bar in the South Pacific than a dim, crowded watering hole in Manhattan. She’d drunk more today than she had in six months. But at least she no longer felt as though someone was sawing on her nerve endings with a dull knife.

The bar was noisy and full of New Yorkers having a few drinks with friends after a long day at work. Jenna ignored them, concentrating, instead, on the FTW file in her lap, which she’d pulled out of her purse.

Undoubtably Vic would find her interview with Mark Bishop lacking in substance, and they still needed something to fill pages. Maybe one of these other guys on the Ten Most Eligible list would be a better candidate. Of course, none of them were engaged to be married, so they’d have to come up with some other hook.

She flipped through the pictures, reading bios and trying to imagine having better luck with one of these rich, powerful, attractive men. Not surprisingly, when she came upon it, she couldn’t help focusing on the picture of Mark Bishop in his sleek mahogany boardroom.

She tried to see what Lauren and Shelby Elaine had accused Mark Bishop of being—a man who didn’t know how to love or trust, and a cheapskate to boot.

Nothing she saw in the picture hinted at that. He was arrogant. Audacious. A snob, probably. Without a doubt he was the most unromantic man on the planet. But the photograph made him look isolated and lonely, too. Incapable of feeling? She just didn’t see it. And when she’d interviewed him, she’d hadn’t sensed it, either.

Growing up around men, Jenna felt she had a special insight into the male psyche. With the notable exception of her ex-husband, Jack, she was pretty good at figuring out what made them tick. Who they really were. What they really wanted out of life.

Mark Bishop could antagonize. Seduce. Confuse. But she’d seen flashes of humor and kindness in him. Most of all, he had a kind of genius for making a person believe they were the sole, fascinating center of his attention. Something in the eyes. A certain lift of the mouth that made you want to… She shook her head and had to smile at her foolishness.

He was just so different from the men in her tiny, civilized universe, that was all. Or maybe it was the liquor she’d consumed on an empty stomach. It might be time to break out the macadamia nuts.

She became aware of a presence at her shoulder. She looked up to find an attractive blond man gazing down at her. His eyebrows lifted in encouragement and his mouth sketched a smile, revealing that the drink in his hand wasn’t his first.

He indicated the empty chair across the table from her. “Is this seat taken?”

“Well, I…” Jenna stopped. She recognized that predatory look. This man had more than conversation in mind. It might be fun to practice her flirting skills, which were pretty rusty, but she didn’t want to have to eventually fend off a drunken advance. Especially since her own mind wasn’t all that sharp right now, either.

You’re a good girl.

Yes. And a boring one.

Do you even remember how to have fun?

No, but I’m willing to relearn.

But starting now? Starting with…him?

Lauren and her father had helped her to realize the depth of the rut she’d been living in for so long. The truth was, her level of boredom with her life was rising above her level of fear. But that realization couldn’t keep a cold, clammy mist of insecurity from settling over her.

The guy was waiting for her answer, his hand on the back of her chair as he leaned close. She returned his smile, trying to recall male/female banter that had been in mothballs for too many years. “Actually—”

Surprise jolted into her at the warm touch of a hand on her shoulder. At first she thought it was the blond man, but quickly saw that it wasn’t. Surprise turned to shock as Mark Bishop edged past her would-be companion and slid into the chair opposite her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said to Jenna. “Did you order my usual?”

He sent the other man a friendly glance of regret. Without a word the man drifted away and back into the crush at the bar.

Jenna blinked at Mark as he settled in. She’d just been looking at his picture, and now he was here. She felt as though she’d conjured him up.

He arched a dark brow at her. “What’s the matter?”

“What are you doing here?”

His gaze slid away from hers momentarily, back to the blond man at the bar, who had already linked up with another woman. “From the looks of it, saving you from making a big mistake.”

His answer annoyed her. Jenna took a big swallow of her drink to get her wits back. The cute little umbrella got in the way and almost took out her eye. She tossed the wretched thing on the table as the alcohol swirled in her system. “I don’t need saving. I was looking for a little conversation, and now you’ve spoiled everything.”

“Really?” he said. He frowned absently out the window as though something on the street displeased him. “I seem to be very adept at spoiling things today.”

His tone sounded raw. There was such regret carved in his profile that she found her annoyance lessening somewhat.

“How did you find me?”

“I wasn’t actually looking for you. I took a walk to clear my head.” He nodded at her red suit. “That color’s hard to miss, and when I saw you in the window, I thought I’d come in. Where’s your partner? Why are you drinking alone?”

“Lauren’s out enjoying New York. And I didn’t think I was going to be drinking alone for very long.”

He gave her a strange look, and she knew she’d surprised him. Good. The last thing she wanted right now was for one more person to think they knew everything there was to know about dull Jenna McNab Rawlins.

Mark jerked his head in the direction of the bar. “Do you want me to call him back?”

“No.”

“Do you mind if I stay awhile?”

She should have told him to go. He confused her. Her reaction to him confused her. If she ever had a hope of stepping back into the real world and facing the prospect of dating again, Mark Bishop was the last man she should consider practicing her feminine charms on.

Instead, ignoring the sudden racing of her heart, Jenna found herself shrugging nonchalantly. “It’s a public place.”

He laughed lightly as he motioned at a passing waiter. “That’s a pretty tepid reception. Where’s all that warm hospitality Southerners are supposed to be so famous for?”

“We’re not in the South.”

His humor faded. “No,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “We definitely are not. Today, I feel like I’ve landed on a completely different planet.”

Jenna would never have thought a voice could sound so tense and utterly devoid of hope. She observed him for a long, quiet moment while the waiter took his order. Maybe he really wasn’t the rat Lauren and Shelby Winston claimed him to be.

She watched him play with the napkin the waiter had left. He had beautiful hands. When the silence between them stretched too thin, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about what happened between you and Miss Winston. Can you salvage your relationship, do you think?”

His manner was brusque, but not ungracious. “No. It’s over between us.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man to give up easily.”

He looked at her. His features were full of fatigue. “Some things just aren’t salvageable.”

“I’m sure…” She stopped, unable to think of anything inspiring to say. He was right. Some things couldn’t be fixed. But she felt the need to say something. She thought of all the lectures she’d endured from her family.

“If you’re made of the right material, a hard fall is bound to result in a high bounce,” she said at last.

His mouth lifted. “Sage advice from your last fortune cookie?”

Her senses swam for a moment, but she knew it wasn’t just the alcohol. She would need to watch out for that smile of his. It was lethal. She shook her head. “No. Unsolicited wisdom from my father after my divorce. And I wasn’t any more receptive to it than you are. Sorry. Force of habit, I guess. In my house, someone’s always getting positive reinforcement. I’m either giving it to my boys or getting it from my father and brothers.”

“Sounds like an interesting family.”

“Sometimes ‘interesting’ is just a polite word for ‘peculiar.’”

“Tell me about them,” he said, clearly ready to move the conversation elsewhere.

She settled her chin on her hand. The discomfort of talking about his breakup with Shelby had passed. God, he was beautiful to look at. Who looked this way outside of Hollywood film actors?

She drew a deep breath. “I have two wonderful sons. Six and seven. I live with my father in Atlanta. I have two older brothers.” She frowned. “I can’t remember how old they are, but they still think of me as their kid sister.” Somehow she’d drained her drink, and now she lifted the glass in the air. “If you want anything deeper than that, you’ll have to buy me another Rum Blaster, because without benefit of liquor, I don’t find my life remotely worth discussing.”

He pinned her with a shrewd glance. “How many of those have you had?”

“This makes three. But they’re girlie drinks, so you really can’t baste the tooze.” She blinked in confusion. “I mean, taste the booze. Gosh, I guess it’s true what they say—the tongue’s the first thing that dissolves in alcohol. Or was that dignity?”

“Have you had any dinner?”

“No.” A colorful row of pineapple, oranges and cherries lay forlornly on a long toothpick in her glass. She pulled them off with her teeth and munched happily for a moment. “Unless you count this fruit.”

“My turn to give advice. Drinking on an empty stomach isn’t a good idea.”

“I’ll write that down,” she said in mock seriousness, patting herself as though looking for a pencil. Her hand stumbled across the bulge in her jacket pocket. “Oh wait, I do have dinner!” She pulled out the small jar of macadamia nuts, tilting it toward him. “Want some?”

“I was thinking of something a little more substantial.”

“They’re awfully expensive, you know? The fact that I’m willing to share them with you means that you must be very, very special.”

Silence. Then he sent her another one of those slow, confusing, blinding smiles. “That’s nice to know,” he said softly.

He was looking at her intently, filling her with an acute and perfect pleasure. How wonderful, she thought, to have a man look at you the way Mark Bishop was. She knew with a helpless, hopeless shudder that she no longer cared what Shelby or Lauren or anyone thought about him.

“Jenna—” her name on his lips was the most seductive sound she’d ever heard “—would you have dinner with me? A real dinner?”

“I suppose,” she said. “I don’t want to throw up.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said with a short laugh. He rose, deposited a few bills on the table and held out one hand. “Come on, I know just the place.”

She seesawed up to her feet, a little surprised at how unsteady she felt. Was it the rum or her damned heels or the effect of standing this close to Mark Bishop? With one hand on her elbow, he led her out of the bar and onto the sidewalk.

They walked in silence, side by side. Jenna clutched her file folder to her chest as if it was the most valuable possession she owned.

Sunset was over, but night had yet to claim the streets completely. The air was soft, full of the promise of rain and a dozen different city scents. They passed bookshops and travel agencies and restaurants too numerous to count. Honky-tonk music drifted out to them from a cowboy bar, beckoning the sinful.

Jenna drew in a deep lungful of air. “I love this time of day, don’t you? All the anxiety and tension you’ve struggled with all day suddenly seem rounded out and smoothed over.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does seem to put all the complexities of the day into perspective.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s hardly your fault.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is your hotel,” she said.

“Yes.”

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

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

“Why not? You were up there earlier.”

“That was different.”

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. Except…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else should I know about you?”

She met his gaze. “I’m an open book.”

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

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

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

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

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

“A very special person,” Mark agreed softly.

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

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

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

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

“Jenna…”

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

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost midnight.”

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

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

“I have to go,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She could rethink it,” Lauren said.

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

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

Although…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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