Talk of the Town (11 page)

Disgusted, she slipped into her Brian Atwood slingbacks, clasped Granny’s pearls around her neck, and fastened on the matching earrings.

When she walked into the kitchen, Harry picked up a beautifully wrapped package from the counter. “You look perfect. Here is the finishing touch.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t have.” She kissed his cheek and opened the present. “An apron.” Casting him a rueful glance, she laughed. “
Exactly
what I’ve always wanted.”

“Exactly what you need for tonight. Let me help you.” He flicked the folded apron open so she could see the deep ruffle along the bottom.

Once he’d slipped the apron over her head and tied the wide sash in the back, she studied the pristine white cotton. “It looks new. Shouldn’t it have a food spot or two on it?”

“Donna Reed’s aprons were always clean. Or was it the
Brady Bunch
cook?” He shook his head. “One of those early domestic goddesses on Nick at Nite.” He studied her with his surgeon’s eye before pushing some short hair behind her left ear. “There. A little disheveled from preparing dinner for the media mogul. Now I must go. Wouldn’t do to be caught in the kitchen. Remember, be yourself. He’ll be enchanted.”

The minute Harry and his optimism were gone, Rebecca started fretting again. She wandered around the condo making last-minute adjustments. Since it was one of those rare perfect fall nights in Chicago, she opened the doors to the narrow terrace.

We’ll have drinks out here.

Harry had re-created the table setting from a picture in one of his late aunt Harriet’s Carolyne Roehm home- living books. He’d used Granny’s antique linen tablecloth, the large blue Venetian glasses, and the blue and white Staffordshire china. In the center he’d placed a white soup tureen full of dahlias in reds, ranging from Bordeaux to champagne. At the base of the large tureen, he’d mounded red grapes and plums. Rebecca backed away, not wanting to shift even a napkin, spoon, or flower for fear of messing up its perfection.

She wandered back into the kitchen.

There’s something wrong with this picture. Too neat if David comes in here.

She lifted the lid on the soup, dipped in the ladle, and dribbled a few green drops along the burner.

Much better.

Still unsatisfied, she opened the refrigerator and took out the bowl of whipping cream for the fresh strawberries. Two smears on the countertop looked right.

The phone rang and, her heart pounding, she answered it. “Mr. Sumner to see you, Miss Covington,” her doorman, Malcolm, announced.

“Please send him up. Thanks.” She just had time to put the whipped cream back in the refrigerator and light the candles on the table before her doorbell rang.

It feels like my heart jumped into my throat. Stop. I’m not afraid of anything.

To prove it, she opened the door on David’s first ring.

He didn’t look quite as much like Pierce as he had at first glance across Allen’s dance floor, but he possessed enough movie star looks to make any healthy woman’s pulse flutter.

Even if he is the enemy.

“Hello, David.” Feeling breathless again, she ushered him into the tiny mirror-lined foyer.

“Hello, Rebecca.” His mouth curling in his slow, sexy smile, he handed her a large bouquet of pink roses in various stages of bloom and a bottle of chilled Cristal champagne.

The dimple dented his cheek as he removed the white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket. “May I?” he asked and touched her cheek. “Dessert, I presume.”

His touch sent hot shivers along her skin. She was surprised the chilled champagne bottle she clasped didn’t start sizzling. Catching sight of her flushed face reflected again and again in the mirrors, she tried to regain control.

“Yes. Dessert.” She twirled away. “Make yourself comfortable on the terrace. I’ll bring you a drink.”

Stop trembling! Put roses in water. Fix his scotch on the rocks. Open champagne. Pour into glass. Place drinks on tray.
Like a robot, she went through the motions of a good hostess while wrapping her mind around the fact she’d definitely felt something
real
when David wiped whipped cream off her cheek.

Pulling herself up to her full height, she held the tray carefully in front of her and marched out of the kitchen. David had followed orders and retreated to the narrow terrace. When he saw her, he took the tray and placed it on the small iron-and-glass table next to the large pot of golden mums.

He handed her the champagne flute and held up his scotch. “I’m impressed. You know my drink.”

Their eyes connected and Rebecca felt light-headed again.

Did I eat today?

“You’d be surprised what I know about you, David.” She tried to sound mysterious while sending a silent thanks to Cathy Post. “If you stand right in this spot”—she shifted so they could change places—“you’ll have a view of Lake Michigan.”

“That flash of blue between the John Hancock and Water Tower Place? Nice.”

God, he has a great smile.

For a second she lost her train of thought. It came searing back when they both moved at the same time and her breasts made contact with his arm. “Dinner is nearly ready. Make yourself at home.”

She escaped back into the safety of the kitchen.

Get a grip.

She plopped down on a chair, closed her eyes, and practiced five deep yoga breaths. After the final
ohm,
she poured herself another glass of champagne and gulped half of it.
Better.
She flew around the kitchen, pulling out her granny’s bowls and cream from the refrigerator, while drinking champagne.

Little flutters of euphoria and nearly letting the bottle slip through her fingers warned she was buzzed from gulping expensive champagne like it was Diet Coke.

She slurped two tablespoons of spinach soup to get something else in her stomach.

Not bad. Tastes yummy.

Plus it looked pretty in her granny’s deep old bowls when Rebecca garnished the top with a minute droplet of cream, which for some reason reminded her of tiny white hearts.

Gripping the dishes like a vise, she moved them carefully out onto the table at the short end of the L-shaped dining room. David had deserted the terrace for the living area, where he was busy studying the photos scattered all over her bookcase.

There was such a sad look on his face she stopped to stare at him.
He looks lost.

Studying the photo of three little girls, the tiny dark-haired one in the center reminding him of Miguellia, he was lost in thoughts of Ellen’s park and the kids and what it all meant to him.

Warmth rippling along his spine warned he wasn’t alone any longer. He glanced up to find Rebecca watching him. “The little girls in this picture must be related to Pauline Alper. That red hair is unique.”

Slowly, Rebecca walked toward him. “Her daughters. Patty and Polly. Aren’t they adorable?”

“Yes. Who’s the little dark-haired girl in the middle?”

“Angelina, my ex-husband’s daughter. She’s a doll, too.”

A hot jolt of shock hit him in the gut. “You’re still close to your ex?” he asked, strangely interested in her answer.

“Heavens, no!” she laughed. “But Angelina and I are friends.”

Intrigued, he gave her a long look. “Interesting. A child should never suffer because adults can’t get along.”

“I absolutely agree.”

She hesitated, and he knew she’d made some kind of decision about him.

“I had a nasty divorce.” She did a mock shudder, trying to make it sound light. But he could see in her eyes there had been nothing easy about it. An ache filled his chest the way it had watching Miguellia take a swing with everything she had at an impossible pitch. He’d sensed Rebecca had courage. Now he knew he’d been right.

“Then four years after the divorce my ex called and said he and his very young wife were taking some family relationship seminars. Their instructor insisted it was imperative that we all have closure so they could become better parents to Angelina.
We
were ancient history, but as you said, none of it was the child’s fault.” She shrugged. “Long story short. We met. Angelina walked in, plopped herself on my lap for the duration of the visit. Very strong like at first sight for both of us. Whenever I get extra tickets to Broadway shows coming to town, I send them to her. This picture was taken when Pauline and I took all three girls to see
The Lion King.
”

Their eyes locked, and the strongest sensation of tenderness he’d felt in years flooded over him. He rammed his hands into his pockets and stepped back to put some space between them. “You surprise me, Rebecca.”

Her blush made her brown eyes large and luminous in her beautiful face. “Well, then, I hope I keep surprising you. Starting with dinner. It’s served.”

With the table between them it was easier for Rebecca to regain control. To try to forget the brain-chemical reaction or whatever it was between them that made her comfortable enough to tell him about Angelina. She needed to rekindle her dislike of him.

“Delicious soup,” he complimented like a well- behaved guest. “This is from your first recipe column with a gossip note?”

Good. Let’s get to the point of this evening.
“Of course.” Settling back in her chair, she sipped champagne instead of her soup. “You wanted to talk about my column?” she asked sweetly and took another gulp.

Mirroring her, he leaned back in his chair, sipping the Duckhorn Sauvignon Blanc Harry had read would be the perfect accompaniment to spinach soup and fowl.

“I wanted to get to know you. Discuss the reasons I made changes at the
Daily Mail.
Particularly how they affect you.”

Affect me? You pulled my world out from under me.

It was safer to feel angry at him than drawn to him. Widening her eyes, she tried to disguise her disgust with interest. “Do tell.”

The cool, calculating gaze from his suddenly narrowed eyes charged the air with so much tension she could have sliced it with her granny’s priceless sterling silver butter knife.

Damn it. Now he knows I’m angry.

He leaned forward. Instinctively, she pressed back into her hardwood chair.

“Let’s lay our cards on the table, Rebecca. I chose Shannon over you because I’m taking the newspaper in a new direction. Reality journalism. I want Shannon out at parties all night. Climbing over people to get the pictures and interviews with local and national celebrities playing in Chicago. If someone famous is dancing topless on a bar, I want Shannon there to share the sexy excitement with the reader. It isn’t a job I believe you can do.”

Of course I don’t want that job!
Oddly unsure what to say or do next, she jumped to her feet. “I smell something burning in the kitchen. Excuse me.” She grabbed their bowls and escaped.

There was no need to deliberately slop food around the kitchen to make it look real. She took out her frustration by slapping the Baja Chicken and rice onto dinner plates. She was furious at him for taking the paper in a direction she believed wrong, but she was even more angry at herself for being so confused about him. Tonight she’d glimpsed someone in him she might actually like.

When sauce splattered on her apron, she stopped to look down. In despair, she tried to wash off the huge red spot. When she failed, she took the apron off and hung it over a kitchen stool to dry.

Sorry, Harry. About everything. I am going to be myself, but David will not be enchanted. He may be handsome and he may have noble tendencies, and I might feel an odd kind of connection to him, but he turned my world upside down for all the wrong reasons and I’m going to tell him so.

David stood when she returned to the table to set the full plate in front of him. He glanced at the deep vee neckline of her Dolce & Gabbana dress, with the little smile that dimpled his cheek. “This must be the infamous Baja Chicken.”

“The only chicken breasts are on our plates,” she snapped.

A red flush, which started at his pale blue starched collar and worked its way up over his cheekbones, caused his sapphire eyes to flash and his smile to deepen. “I never doubted it.”

She felt herself flush, too. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She sat down across from him and crossed her arms over her chest, which had the unfortunate effect of swelling her cleavage. “I hope everything is to your taste.”

“It is,” he answered over a forkful of chicken breast. All the while, his cool eyes appraised her.

I’m so tense and a little drunk. If I eat one morsel of food I’ll throw up.
She clenched her hands in her lap. She needed to get the evening back on track. “David, since you’ve been so honest with me, I feel I should reciprocate.” She tried to smile but couldn’t.
This
was so important to her. “I violently disagree with you on your vision for the paper. What you call reality journalism is what I call yellow journalism.”

“The world has changed since journalism school, Rebecca.” He lifted the bottle of Duckhorn from the ice bucket to pour himself another glass. “Reality programming is the wave of the future.”

“Then God help us all! The main impact reality TV has had on the world is that now everybody believes they can be famous. Once fame was earned by working hard to enhance a talent to act, sing, dance, paint, write, heal, invent.
Add
something to the world. Ten years from now, an entire generation of kids reared on reality programming are going to be visiting therapists daily because they didn’t become famous for eating enough bugs. That’s
my
personal
Fear Factor.
”

Leaning back, calmly drinking his wine, David didn’t appear moved by her passionate outburst. “Do you watch
Project Runway
or
Dancing with the Stars
?”

Again she felt a hot flush of embarrassment rush up from her chest to burn her cheeks. “Those young designers
create
something. The others
learn
a skill.”

“Those programs are fresh and innovative examples of good reality programs. The type of product I plan to use to revive WBS-TV, which I picked up in this deal. The same way I’m reinventing the newspaper.”